Antiphony
by Cantare
Summary: Mozenrath challenges Jasmine to stop him from enacting a flawless plan. In the process she finds there can be much more at stake than everything. Revision complete.
1. Prologue

Prologue

"Good evening, Princess."

She opened her eyes abruptly at the sound of that voice. There was only darkness around her, not a single trace of the moonlight that always filtered through her window. Effectively blind, she groped in the dark for the edge of her bed—and found that there was no bed.

She was standing, somehow, but felt nothing beneath her feet. She cast about wildly with her arms, trying to get her bearings. A second later she forced herself to calm down, reminded of the voice that had jarred her awake. The sight of her flailing around helplessly would only serve to amuse him.

"What do you want?" she said guardedly. Her voice sounded small, pressed in on all sides by the expansive silence.

"An old friend isn't welcome to pay a visit?" The false hurt in his voice was evident. She whirled around, trying to sense where it was coming from. Her shoulder brushed against a solid form covered in smooth cloth. Before she could move away, cold leather-covered fingers encircled her wrist.

"Watch your step," he said nonchalantly.

"Don't touch me," she snapped in disgust, jerking her hand away. At least he was wearing the glove—she shuddered at the thought of skeletal fingers caressing her skin.

"I'm hurt, Princess." The honeyed falsity of his voice grated on her nerves.

"What do you want, Mozenrath? Let me out of this place, or I swear you'll pay."

"Hmm, I've heard that one before—don't you heroic types ever tire of repeating the same old threats?"

"Don't you evil villain types ever tire of trying the same old tricks?" she retorted, her eyes darting blindly around the darkness.

"I don't believe I have ever tried this before…have I?" She tensed; the silken voice was no longer in front of her. She jumped at the brief touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she seethed. "Tell me what you want."

A sigh in the darkness. "I suppose royal orders are meant to be obeyed." A brief pause. "There is actually very little I want…nothing that you might expect, Princess."

"Get on with it—"

"Thirty days." The words followed her command seamlessly. "In thirty days everything will be mine—everything that you hold dear. There is nothing that anyone can do to stop me this time. Not even your beloved street rat or his pet genie."

She curled her lip, expecting he could see her scornful expression in the dark. "You've had the same foolish confidence in every one of your plans, and they've all failed. What makes this one any different?"

"Ah, now that is for you to find out," he said smoothly. "True, my past attempts have not gone as I wished. But this time I will not fail. Beyond any measure of a doubt."

"I'm not convinced," she said flatly. "Since when could anyone take you at your word?"

"Since now," he said, his voice cordial and cold. "This is no lie or farce, no hopeful exaggeration. In thirty days I will have everything under my power. My plan is foolproof."

She folded her arms. "If it _is_ true, then why are you telling me about it?"

"Why not tell you about it?" His soft laugh echoed around her.

She gritted her teeth. "You're just doing this to taunt me?"

The whisper came from close behind her. "To challenge you."

She instinctively moved away. "How do you intend to do that?"

"I've decided to make this a bit more interesting. If you can figure out what my plan is within the next thirty days, then I will not carry it out."

She opened her mouth to speak and he cut her off. "If you tell any of your friends about this little game between us, I will carry it out at that very moment. And I don't believe you are foolish enough to attempt to kill me on your own, but the same consequences apply."

She was witnessing depths of his mind that she did not know existed, realizing he was even more twisted than she had thought before. "What do you have to gain by this, Mozenrath?"

"I've realized something about invincible plans—when an outcome is absolutely predictable, there is little fun in pursuing it. So if I can't make the plan any less predictable, I'll toss some variables into the process leading up to its implementation."

"Why did you choose me for this sick game? Why not Aladdin?"

A chuckle. "Ah, I knew the questions would never end. That is why, Princess. You never stop questioning, never stop trying to get your way. If I drop a wall in front of you, I know you'll keep hitting your head against it until it breaks or you pass out. Unlike your thieving little street rat, you'd never try going around an obstacle—not that you can in this case—but my point is…you are the most persistent opponent I know. Take that as a compliment if you wish. Your stubbornness gives you more entertainment value."

"You're despicable. But I still don't believe you," she said defiantly.

"I'm afraid you have little choice in the matter. Consider this: if I am telling the truth—which I am—how would it feel to know you alone had the chance to stop me, but because of your disbelief you failed to act?"

Her fists slowly clenched and unclenched at her sides. She turned over the implications in her mind, checking for flaws, loopholes in his proposal—and found none.

"Thirty days," she stated. "And how will I let you know once I've figured it out?"

He laughed—perhaps at her rather quick acquiescence to the game, perhaps at her bold assumption that she would be able to stop him. "Before you sleep, you may call for me."

The thought of seeing him in her dreams again sickened her. "You disgust me. Get out. Get out of my head now."

"As you wish, Your Highness. I look forward to our next meeting—"

"I don't. Get out."

Somehow she could see the image of his wicked smile in her mind before his presence faded.

"Goodnight, Princess."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

She opened her eyes to sunlight and a tiger's soft fur brushing her hand. The first day.

She attended to the necessary administrative duties her father had begun assigning her lately with heightened alacrity. She would be sultana soon, and needed that experience to prepare her. In two hours she was finished, ready to turn her full attention to the other task she had been given, perhaps the greatest challenge she had ever faced. Perhaps a task that would better prepare her for the throne than any of the mundane duties her father had assigned.

A lifetime of royal grooming made concealment of her worry rather easy. The guards and servants suspected nothing was amiss except a mild headache. Feigning discomfort, she stayed in her room for most of the day, canceling a meeting with her wedding planners in order to devote all of her effort to the matter at hand.

She recalled every attempt Mozenrath had ever made to conquer or destroy Agrabah. She wrote them down, pored over the details, noted how they had failed, how much of their failure had stemmed from her and Aladdin's cleverness, and how much had been pure luck. By the late afternoon there were pieces of parchment strewn everywhere around her chamber. A brief sense of urgency and fear overtook her—she only had thirty days to come up with the correct answer. Was this even the right approach to take?

A second later she willed herself to calm down. Thirty days was plenty of time. She was off to an excellent start. This was the logical thing to do—pick apart the enemy's past plans and modify them, improve upon them until they were flawless, and then present the best of them to Mozenrath.

It was unsettling. She was supposed to defend the kingdom, to think constantly of how to protect it, not to find ways to conquer and destroy it. She looked up from the latest plan she had written out, and realized her dinner had grown cold. She hadn't even noticed when the servant had brought it in.

Absently she fed Rajah off her plate while continuing to read over what she had scribbled. Night had already fallen, and she would soon sleep. Her spine straightened reflexively; her posture automatically took on an air of authority in the face of an impending threat. She tried to relax. This was only the first night. She had many other chances to find the right answer.

But of course it was not only the time restriction that set her on edge. It was the very thought of facing the sinister wizard every night, alone, in her dreams. To have so little control of the circumstances of their conversation…he could keep her wandering in the dark, clueless as to where he was, recoiling at every touch of his hand upon her skin. This was truly a game to him. A very sick game.

"It's a game I'll win," she whispered to Rajah as he licked the palm of her hand. She settled back into her bed and read over the plans she had detailed one last time.

She suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. He was listening for her, waiting for her to call.

She had to take as much of the situation into her own hands as possible, or at least make herself feel like she was in control. He was not waiting for her. She was the one expecting him to appear.

She closed her eyes. "Mozenrath. I'm waiting."

***

1.

"Good evening, Princess."

She was once more standing on nothing, immersed in darkness and immediately on edge.

"I've come up with some plans, Mozenrath."

"Getting down to business so soon? I was going to ask how your day was," he said in mock disappointment.

"I don't want to bear your presence any longer than I have to," she said coldly. "Let's get this over with."

"As you wish. Proceed."

She collected her thoughts and presented her first plan. "You almost took over Agrabah by bringing those barrels of black sand into the palace. As a result, my father passed a decree that all barrels and other storage containers must be inspected before entering the city. But no inspection system is ever perfect, especially in a kingdom as large as ours. We would not be able to stop a few barrels from slipping by the guards. To make it easier for yourself, you could first take control of the border guards and inspection police with the black sand, then use them to allow more barrels into the city. You could send them into the palace again, or you could poison the city's water supply with the sand. At that point—"

"Interesting," he mused. "First, the concept of taking my old schemes and improving upon them…I don't know if I should be impressed or insulted. Quite a clever approach, Princess, although it does stab at my pride that I didn't think to try all those things you mentioned. But you need not go on; black sand is not what I intend to use."

She narrowed her eyes at his condescending tone. Then she paused—should she even bother to continue with the plans she had written? From the sound of his reply, his ultimate plan was not related to any previous methods he had employed.

She decided to tell him anyway. Even if her plans were all wrong, his responses to them might help guide her in the right direction.

"You almost succeeded in annihilating the city when you had that wind jackal under your control. You might try to capture it again, and this time, you won't command it by your voice, but through some mental link. Or you could speak to it in a language that none of us knows so that it would obey you alone."

A dry chuckle. "Very nice, I must admit. But wrong again."

She frowned, not at the fact that she was wrong, but at the sparseness of his words. She had gleaned nothing from that answer.

"You could hire another mukhtar to hunt down a genie for you, not necessarily ours. Preferably a genie that is still bound to its lamp, which makes it more powerful than a free one. You could then either harness its power in a Crystal of Ix, or you could use the wishes to gain control of any lands you wish."

"And how would I prevent you and your friends from foiling my plans in that case?" he asked curiously.

She paused at the unexpected question. "You would look for a genie far away from Agrabah to escape our notice. Or if we did somehow find out, you would give the mukhtar some of your power in order to conceal and protect him. Invisibility, perhaps. Or the ability to teleport. Then you would seal off your Citadel for a time, so that no living being other than you could enter and break the Crystal or steal the lamp."

"Intriguing. Very intriguing indeed," he said thoughtfully. "I seem to have underestimated your level of intelligence, Princess."

She bristled. "I thought you learned not to underestimate me when I trapped you in your own Crystal of Ix, Mozenrath."

"Of course, how could I forget that rather unpleasant experience?" he said airily. "But then it was more about learning not to underestimate your wrath. Truly an ugly thing to behold."

"Save me your insults. Is my answer right or wrong?" she snapped.

"I'm afraid you are wrong again. Any more guesses?"

His dismissive responses to her three best plans were discouraging. There was no use in disclosing any more of the plots she had written down.

"No."

"Well then, I suppose that's all for tonight? Unless you have anything else you'd like to discuss?" he said amiably.

"I have nothing to discuss with you. Let me sleep."

"Goodnight then, Princess." His retreating voice was fading in volume. "Better luck tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She was up earlier than usual the next morning. Immediately after breakfast, she scheduled a meeting with the captains of the city guard, the royal engineers, and the head historian. She handed them a list of orders, modifications to the city defense.

They were to train their dogs to recognize the smell of black sand and the distinct scent of Mamluks, which was somehow masked to human senses. The guards would install at least one hound at each inspection gate. The animals would warn the border patrols if anything managed to filter through the initial inspection process. She also commanded them to expand the underground shelters, which were currently made to hold about one third of the city's populace should a severe sandstorm sweep into Agrabah. Lastly, she ordered the historian to look into legends of jinnis in other lands.

She caught the questioning look in Razoul's eye, though none of the officials voiced their opinions. Royal orders were meant to be obeyed, and it was not their place to question unless something was blatantly amiss.

Still, it was better for them to learn her intentions directly from her than their own whispered conversations.

"My days as your princess are drawing to an end. I will soon be sultana, and it is fitting for me to assume the duty of defending my kingdom now," she stated, her regal gaze sweeping over the men kneeling before her. "I realize that there are many enemies who might seek to test my power, as they are prone to see me as a mere woman and Aladdin as a low-class upstart. I will be prepared for their attempts to undermine our authority."

"A wise plan, Your Highness," the historian said warmly. He was a kind old man, seldom involved in the palace's day-to-day affairs. He was primarily an archivist and a teacher, and a master storyteller in addition. Jasmine had spent many nights of her childhood listening to his spellbinding accounts of marauders and princes, dragons and magic in faraway lands. "We will do our best to support you."

"You are dismissed, then," she said with a slight smile. "Report back to me daily on your progress."

She returned to her room and immediately began writing once more. If Mozenrath was not going to try one of his old tricks in modified form, then he might attempt something another one of Agrabah's enemies had concocted before. Many had come close to taking over the city or ruining it beyond repair. She considered the plans that had been the most airtight. The ones that had relied the least on luck.

In the middle of the afternoon, an unsettling thought struck her. If this were all a farce, some devious trick of Mozenrath's, then she was in effect handing him the keys to the city in a dozen different ways. She was giving him plenty of inventive plans that were likely to succeed given the city's current defensive status. Perhaps she should wait until she had built up adequate defenses before reporting these plots to Mozenrath. But then…he would know anyway, wouldn't he? He could enter her dreams at will. What was to stop him from monitoring the city?

What was to stop him from monitoring her right now?

She glanced around the room as if suddenly every wall had eyes and ears. There was no telling what he was capable of; if it were true that he had an invincible plan to conquer everything, then many other things were certainly within his capability.

"Are you watching me?" she asked into the silence. Rajah raised his head toward her in curiosity. She fought down the feeling of foolishness and embarrassment in her gut. Her nails dug into the soft cushion of the divan on which she was reclining. "Are you?"

She waited a minute. Her curtains swayed gently in the breeze. The chirping of birds in the fountain floated in through the window. There was no response. She could not feel his presence.

With unease she went back to writing. Mirage had come particularly close to winning control when she had cast that sleeping spell…

***

2.

"I am pleased to see you again, Princess."

_I'm not. And I can't see you anyway_.

"I've thought of more possibilities," she said bluntly. She would never get used to standing on nothing and seeing only black. "Better than yesterday's."

"And what might they be?"

"You will use the Rose of Forgetfulness on us. My father, Aladdin, myself…any of us will succumb to the scent of it. You might disguise it as another flower and plant it among the many in the royal gardens. Or you might extract its fragrance and suffuse the air in the palace with it, or perhaps only certain rooms. You only need the leaders of Agrabah to forget who they are, and you will be able to control us. You can persuade us to do anything. Forsake the kingdom, abdicate the throne to you, destroy it from the inside out."

"I assume you know of this Rose from previous experience," Mozenrath said with a hint of amusement. "That story I would love to hear someday. But no, I have never liked flowers very much, considering very little is able to grow on my land…proceed to the next item."

Jasmine suppressed a shudder at the memory of waking up from her "previous experience" with the Rose of Forgetfulness. Knowing she had caused so much damage—thinking she had become an enemy of everything she loved—even the satisfaction of knowing she had been strong enough to give Aladdin a run for his money in hand-to-hand combat hadn't taken the rough edge off the aftermath of that experience.

The next plan brought another sour set of memories to the forefront of her mind.

"You can use a magical spell to switch places with anyone in the world. The spell would entail a swap of personal history and memory, but it would allow you to keep your own memories. It would also affect everyone around that person, changing their memories so that they would accept you in his place. The most direct way to take control of Agrabah using this magic would be to switch places with my father, since he is sultan…but he is old, and you would not be able to pass yourself off as my father. Then…" She paused before continuing. These were not pleasant thoughts. "You would be able to switch with Aladdin. You are about the same age, same build. And you would become sultan."

"Because we would be wed," he smoothly added the sentence she had chosen to omit. "Quite a flattering proposal, Princess."

She flushed angrily. "Flattering you has never been my intent. If this isn't what you intend, I'll be eternally grateful!"

He sighed. "Humor does not seem to come naturally to you royal types. One would think that consorting with your carefree street rat for all this time might have loosened you up a bit."

She ignored the sidetracking comments and moved onto the next plan.

"I don't know about your knowledge of science, particularly that of temporal physics. But you could construct a time machine and travel into the past. You could alter anything you wanted. You could set yourself up as ruler of many kingdoms, not just Agrabah."

"Time travel is quite a messy endeavor, full of paradoxes and bountiful opportunities for one to erase his own existence," he said dismissively. "I would not attempt such a foolish mission."

Despite how much his arrogance irked her, she was glad that he was finally responding to her statements with more than just a brief negative answer. He hadn't given her any particularly useful information so far, however. Very little could grow on his land…that was obvious; black sand tended to kill life rather than sustain it. And she could not exactly deduce that he was naturally risk-averse from his refusal to use time travel; any sensible person would think that plan was too dangerous.

She had to think of other ways to get inside his mind, to figure out two important things—what his ultimate plan was, and his true motive for this thirty-day game. She did not believe it was only for the sake of a fun challenge. There had to be something more. But she had no grasp of it at the moment…the entire ordeal was quite frustrating in how incomprehensible it was.

"You could cast a sleep spell on the city," she said, starting on the final plan she would present to him for the night. "Although difficult, it is possible with enough planning and careful infiltration. With everyone in the city asleep and unaware, you would be able to stage a bloodless takeover."

"A bloodless takeover," he mused. "How sanitary."

"Or I suppose you could have your Mamluks brutally tear apart every citizen in their homes," she said viciously. "If that's more appealing to your nature."

"Princess, I'm offended," he said in that maddeningly smooth, cultured voice. "What on earth do you take me for? A barbarian?"

"I take you for what you are, Mozenrath. A ruthless man with no care for anything but himself, whose ambitions know no limit or moral restraint."

"Ah, of course, the classic evil monster—"

"I'm not finished," she interrupted. She should have ended their conversation already, but she had to go on. In the back of her mind she was aware this was only the second night, and she was already starting to fray at the edges.

"I said you are a man," she continued. "I didn't say monster. You're not anything that great or terrifying. You are a man with destructive powers and destructive intentions, but just a man nonetheless. Don't think I'm afraid of you, Mozenrath. Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, it does seem like I've worn out my welcome for the night," he chuckled lightly. "I will take my leave, then?"

She did not object as the oppressive blackness began to fade into the comfortable blanket of sleep. Before she slipped into unconsciousness, he spoke again softly.

"Oh, and Princess. I don't think you're afraid. I know you are."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Her second meeting with royal officials was easier, less tense. She rattled off a new list of defensive adjustments and they nodded wordlessly. The guards seemed to tread around her more carefully, their eyes obligatorily downcast and deferential as usual, but with a new sense of respect mixed with wonder. She knew the change was rather sudden. She had always been strong-willed and demanding, but before now she had concerned herself primarily with her own needs and desires, not Agrabah's. It must have seemed to them that their self-absorbed, petulant princess had grown overnight into an astute ruler who genuinely cared for the welfare of her people.

The old historian stayed in the conference room after she had dismissed them all. The single jewel on his turban twinkled under the light as he bowed to her.

"It is an honor to serve you, Your Highness. You always were a bright child, graced with a sharp mind and keen intuition," he said with an encouraging smile. He paused. "I beg your pardon…you are no longer a child. You are no longer just a princess either. Your father must be very proud."

"I am undeserving of your praise, Councilor," she said graciously. "And I am grateful for your encouragement. It is…quite different and new to me, the duties of the throne. I fear I am not nearly prepared."

"Your first steps have been thoughtful and wise. But if I may give you a bit of advice, unworthy as my opinion may be…"

"Speak. I have never counted your opinion as unworthy. Please do not demean yourself before me."

He bowed his head again. "Concern is a proper sentiment for every ruler, allowing one to maintain heightened alertness; however, when concern bleeds into worry, it often leads to distress, which only makes things more difficult. I cannot presume to know the pressures you face, but I hope that you will continue to take them in stride. And I hope you will remember that you do not have to bear your burdens alone."

She looked at the wizened old man thoughtfully. "Thank you. I will remember your words."

She entered her chambers several minutes later and set to writing. The historian's advice continued to roll through her mind. Was her worry so plainly visible already? Was it possible _not _to worry in this situation?

He was right in that worrying would not accomplish anything. It would only push her closer to outright paranoia. But he was wrong in another aspect.

She had to bear it all alone. There was no one she could talk to about the reasons for all the defensive modifications she had ordered. She could not even tell Aladdin, who would soon be ruling the kingdom with her.

Should she have been flattered that Mozenrath had chosen her alone for this game? She was his most persistent opponent, he had said. He trusted she would try her utmost to stop him even if it meant driving herself to exhaustion.

She could not fail. Her grip on the quill tightened in anger. She still had no way of knowing whether this was all a bluff, a ploy of some sort to cover an underlying motive. But Mozenrath had cleverly set up the challenge so that it did not matter whether the threat was real or not. The consequences of it being real were too great for her to ignore. So she could not fail.

She decided to move on from the pattern of the past two days. Failed attempts at conquest by Agrabah's enemies would no longer be her starting point. She would be coming up with her own plans now.

***

3.

"The power of a kingdom does not lie in its rulers, but in the masses. You could use some spell to gain control over the populace and turn the city against me and Aladdin."

"An interesting observation, Princess. Have you been reading up on political theories of governance?"

"I didn't need books to learn that," she said curtly.

"And I don't need books to remind me I should stop underestimating your intelligence. I assume that's what you're thinking at the moment," he replied amiably. "In any case, I am curious; why a spell?"

The question was unexpected. "What do you mean? You've always used spells."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"You'd use a spell because that's the only way you could get the city over to your side. Do you think my people would just flock to you if you declared your intention to take over?" she said coldly.

"Would I have to declare such an intention?"

"No, but anything else you say won't earn you any support either. You are a public enemy, as I'm sure you're aware."

"But public opinion is quite a fickle mistress, is it not?"

She was unsure where he was going with this. But it was better than the clipped, unrevealing answers he had given the previous two days.

"It is fickle, but I don't believe it's fickle enough to make a 180 degree turn and welcome you with open arms, regardless of what you do or say."

"Really now. Might you be underestimating the ignorance of your people? I have never harmed them directly, have I? Very few outside of palace circles have actually seen my face."

She paused. He was right, but she'd be damned to admit she was wrong. "So you think you'd be able to get the people to revolt without using a spell on them."

"What do _you _think, Princess? It's not my place to be setting forth proposals, as you might remember," he said in an irritatingly smug tone.

She ignored the mocking comment and pressed on. "If you don't use magic to brainwash the people, you could still use magic to instill fear in them. A display of your destructive power, given you can prevent Genie from interfering, would be enough to sway their confidence in my ability to defend the kingdom. They would flock to you in fear and submission."

"I suppose fear is always the first sentiment to come to mind concerning me," he said nonchalantly. "A reasonable conjecture."

Her fists clenched at the memory of his words from the previous night.

_I don't think you're afraid. I know you are._

She would not give in to fear. He was not threatening her person in any way.

He was merely threatening the entire kingdom.

She gritted her teeth. Continually thinking about the situation in such terms was not helping. She forced herself to focus on the immediate issue at hand.

"I find it hard to imagine you convincing anyone with something other than fear," she retorted. "You don't seem to have credentials for winning respect and admiration, considering the fact all of your subjects are mindless zombies."

"That almost stung," he said, still aloof. "But I wonder how much respect and admiration your people have for their future sultan."

The issue was still a sore spot for Aladdin. His initial popularity after saving the kingdom from Jafar had waned considerably, and there was actually a sizable conservative faction that had begun loudly objecting to the idea of a street rat ascending the throne.

"I suppose you could discredit Aladdin. But you couldn't discredit me."

"Would I need to?"

She caught the insinuation in his question. "Yes, because you would never be able to take the throne alongside me," she said edgily. "I think I've made that clear already. But I believe this discussion has become rather pointless. It is obvious that it would be easier to use a brainwashing spell to win over the public than to court them with your nonexistent charm."

"You are quite right, Princess, though I beg to differ on your judgment of my charm. I believe I told you at the very beginning that my plan is flawless. That leaves no room for the fickle mistress of public opinion."

She had learned enough for the night. Although she still had no idea what his plan was, she had been able to draw more out of him than just pithy comments. Or rather, he had decided to talk more on his own.

***

4.

"You could create a pocket dimension. You could transport Agrabah and any other cities of your choosing through a portal into your self-made world. We'd be at your mercy."

"An alternate dimension. Like Morbia? How quaint."

"You'd be able to create your own physical laws. You could set the rules any way you wanted."

"True. But I fail to see how this would bring everything under my control. Whether in the present world or in the proposed dimension, I would still have to deal with the same troublesome people, would I not?"

"I said you could create your own laws. You could alter the very rules of existence and force us to obey."

"Quite an ambitious idea, Princess. But no—as you might have noticed, I don't fancy imitating Mirage or any other enemy you might have faced in the past. I appreciate the streak of originality you've displayed for the past two days, though. Do keep it up."

She longed to erase the smug smile she knew he was wearing. By now she did not need to see him to know the expressions that accompanied his speech.

***

Her father was curious as to why she had ordered the stores of the city granaries to be opened for a day and for grain to be distributed freely among the people. She passed it off once again as a vital step in preparation for her coronation, to build up her image as a benevolent ruler.

It bothered her that out of all the whirlwind changes she had been making over the past several days, her father only seemed to care about one, and the most trivial one at that. She had never seriously questioned his capability as a ruler before, perhaps because she had never taken her own duties as a princess seriously enough. She had spent most of her lifetime in rebellion against her predetermined status as the future wife of some pompous foreign prince. Perhaps if she hadn't been so bent on protesting against her rather privileged state, she could have realized how much power she actually held, that she would not play a mere servant's role when she became sultana.

But her hold on power never felt as tenuous as it did now. She was appeasing the masses for the moment by giving them free grain. If she asked the royal statisticians to conduct a poll, she was sure her popularity would have risen considerably from this show of kindness. But how long would it last? Only until the next drought, recession, or invasion. More likely, the people would soon forget about this day, as public memory was quite fleeting.

She faced a paradox. It seemed the more prepared she was to rule, the more paranoid she became. There were myriad ways the city could be conquered or demolished. Each new idea that came to her was an added weight to the already heavy burden on her back.

She had so much to fear; how could she rule properly? She was not even sultana yet, but Mozenrath's game had forced her to confront these deeply troubling issues.

Was his goal to drive her clinically insane in a span of thirty days? Incapacitating her so that he could take over? Not probable, since he would still have to deal with Aladdin. But perhaps it would be a consolation prize for him, to reduce the princess to a nervous wreck by the end of the month.

Rajah had noticed her distress. Out of everyone close to her, the loyal animal she had grown up with seemed most attuned to her moods and emotions. He stayed closer to her these days, growling at whoever entered her chambers as if guarding her from danger. But he too could not conceive of what was troubling her; he only knew that she was threatened by something. And like everyone else, he could do nothing to help.

***

5.

She began differently this night.

"What exactly did you mean by control, Mozenrath?"

"Pardon?" He sounded mildly intrigued.

"When you rejected the plan of creating an alternate dimension. You said you couldn't see how it would bring everything under your control. And…in the beginning, you said you would have everything under your power in thirty days. What does that mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"Why can't you just answer my questions straightforwardly?" she said, irritated.

"Because it's more fun to see you frustrated."

"Bastard—"

"And I find it interesting, the way you think."

She didn't know how to reply to that. "What does control mean to you? Would you be content with having absolute power over a populace that abhors you?"

"Ah. It's about time."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "What?"

He continued smoothly. "What is power? There are different kinds, as you are aware. But what is the truest kind, the most absolute? And which kind might a man like me desire?"

"You seem to enjoy lording it over others, to have people grovel at your feet."

"And you haven't?" he returned her question. "How many people have bowed at your feet, trembling in fear of knowing what you could do to them with a wave of your hand? Do you not admit that such power has had an effect on you, Princess?"

"I…" She stumbled at the thought of this unexpected turn, but caught herself quickly. "I have never thought of my power as a thing to abuse and harm people with."

"Have you ever seriously thought of your power at all? It seems more likely that you have taken it for granted your entire pampered life. Power is woven into your very identity, such a fundamental part of your daily life that you are not even conscious of it." His voice was serious, missing the humor he had so far displayed throughout their conversations.

"But I'm not like you, Mozenrath. I don't take people's lives for granted."

"Ah, Princess. Always avoiding the things you don't want to hear. Each time the conversation tilts toward you, you force it away. Merely affirming the fear you hold inside."

"I meant what I said before. I'm not afraid of you."

"What is it you are afraid of, then? You cannot deny that fear exists in you; it bleeds off you like an open wound," he said, his voice seemingly closer than before. "Are you afraid because you feel powerless? Knowing you cannot order the threat away, or leave your servants to take care of it? Perhaps because you realize there is little you can control besides the answers you come up with?"

"I'm not helpless," she snapped, backing away though blackness was still all around her. "If I were truly as cowardly as you think me to be, I'd have given up by now."

"Cowardice and fear are two different things," he replied. "Fear is what has prevented you from giving up."

It made her angry to be told she was wrong. It was worse when she actually was wrong.

And it made her angry that he knew her so well. How could he so easily see through all her words and actions to what lay beneath? Was she that transparent? Or was he that frighteningly perceptive?

"Why have you been hiding in the dark all this time?" she challenged. But even here she was losing to him again.

_Each time the conversation tilts toward you, you force it away._

Still, she continued. "Is it just an additional fear tactic? Concealing yourself to try to scare me?"

"Would you prefer to see my face, Princess?"

He had won again, by a preemptive strike.

She would have challenged him to show himself, to dispel the arrogant notion that he frightened her by keeping her clueless of his whereabouts. But in a simple question tinged with amusement, he had taken that small victory from her.

"I want to deal as equals, Mozenrath," she said adamantly. It was her attempt to reclaim the playing field. "So yes, I want to see you."

"Very well then."

She felt the darkness shift around her, and in a swirl of mist the sorcerer appeared before her. The indigo and black of his elegantly cut robes seemed to blend together in her vision. His pale face, framed by black ringlets, was lowered slightly in a bow of courtesy. An easy smile graced his lips.

"Now," he said. "Might we proceed with your plans for tonight?"


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Jasmine. Jasmine!"

All heads at the table turned toward the door, cutting her off in the midst of her orders to the royal statisticians. As her father stepped into her room, his short, round frame flanked by two guards, all who were present immediately bowed their heads. The sultan's eyes found her, and she returned his gaze levelly before bowing a second too late for courtesy.

The sultan looked around the room full of civil servants and nodded briefly, ordering them all out. Several glanced with uncertainty at the princess; she gave them her permission with a wave and a sigh, her chin resting against the knuckles of one hand.

"Jasmine, I believe we need to continue yesterday's conversation," her father said, sitting down beside her. The two guards took their leave quietly without being asked.

She did not miss the concern in his voice, and wondered what this could be about. "Before we do, Father, I'd like to ask that you don't interrupt me like that. I don't hold meetings unless they're necessary."

"That's just what I wanted to speak with you about, dear." She could hear the disapproval in his stern tone. He looked unsettled, and she was fairly sure she knew the reason.

She had openly rebelled against him in the past, but never so dispassionately and rationally. He was losing the daughter he knew—fiery, rash, driven by impulse. The new person she was becoming was a greater challenge to his authority. The conversation they had had the day before must have been the first time he had noticed the sultana within the princess.

"What's the matter, Father?"

"Jasmine, I am pleased that you are assuming many responsibilities and proving yourself capable of ruling, but…why? I don't understand the urgency for such changes. I was informed this morning by my ministers just how much you have been doing. The border patrols are in a frenzy trying to implement the demands you have set. The royal treasurer asked me for permission today to draw from the kingdom's reserves to fund a massive construction project of underground shelters. Do you realize how much of a drain on our resources those two changes alone will be?"

"We will have the resources. I will make sure of it," she said, sounding surer than she felt. Her father's words made her think of another plot Mozenrath might try—to strike at the kingdom's economy through cutting off trade routes or poisoning crops. She would have to prepare a plan to counter such a move by nightfall.

"I'm afraid you still have much to learn about effective governance. There are only so many changes a ruler can make in a short span of time, especially if there is little need for change. Agrabah has not been under threat for a good while, nor are we in a state of hostility toward any other sovereign kingdom."

"There are always threats. They're just not always detectible. The most dangerous ones are the least detectible, in fact."

He shook his head. "This is not an adventure tale from your childhood storybooks, Jasmine. Secret conspiracies and underground enemies—there are none great enough to seriously threaten the kingdom, and even if there are, our defenses are more than strong enough to deal with them."

She narrowed her eyes. "Adventure tales? Father, I'm not a child anymore. I'm not naïve or stupid. I'd say I've actually done more to protect the kingdom in the last few days than you've done in years."

There, she had said it. She steeled herself against the urge to back away and apologize at the look of indignation and hurt on her father's kind features. He was known across the land for his upright and benevolent character. But he had never been the most competent of rulers.

"Jasmine," he said warningly. "You speak out of turn. Must we have this talk again? You must know your place as princess. You will be sultana, but not sultan. Your role is to serve, not to lead. I understand you may feel resentful against me because I hold the power you cannot wield—"

"You have to be kidding me, Father. What I said doesn't have to do with any resentment against your authority. And I disagree with your view of my future role. Sultan or sultana, whoever rules fairly and effectively should have the power. You said yourself over a year ago that the law was the problem. No archaic law is going to prevent me from assuming the level of authority I need in order to keep the kingdom safe."

He sighed, throwing up his hands in resignation. "I won't argue with you any further, it never gets us anywhere. Let me ask you a question, then. Have you spoken with Aladdin at all about any of the things you have done in the past week?"

She paused. "No, I haven't."

He nodded slowly, as if he had expected her answer. "You may continue to disagree with me, but I am telling you that your role is to serve. Not only serve our people, but serve your husband. Aladdin will be sultan, and whether you like it or not he will be the head of the kingdom. The question of his own competence aside, you must devote yourself to supporting him in his duties as ruler. It concerns me that you have not spoken to him at all about the actions you have taken. I have already bent over backwards in order to allow him to succeed me, Jasmine. I have scrapped age-old laws and fought half the court tooth-and-nail to uphold my choice…your choice. You chose to marry him, daughter, and you must take responsibility for that decision. All will not go smoothly when he ascends the throne. You must help prepare him to rule and prepare our people to accept him instead of building yourself up. The only thing that will unsettle the kingdom more than a street rat sultan is a woman on the throne."

Her fists clenched and unclenched in her lap. Her father was more insightful than she had thought, but none of what he had said gave her any sense of peace. It only added more to her list of concerns.

How was she to talk to Aladdin about all of this? The flurry of activity in the past week had nothing to do with him, or so she had assumed until her father had pointed out the complexity of their situation. For the sake of her fiancé's public image, she could not continue to exclude him. The people would not respect a ruler whose wife made the major decisions for the kingdom. But she could not tell him the real reason for her actions in the past few days.

At her silence, the sultan pressed on. "Do you believe he is ready to rule?"

There was no question there. "No," she answered honestly.

Her father sighed again. "Neither do I, dear. Neither do I. And that worries me greatly."

"If it worries you," she said slowly, "why haven't _you _talked to him about it? If you think I should just play a supportive role and not hold any real power, then I shouldn't be the one to teach him anything about how to rule. That responsibility is yours, isn't it?"

"He is required to attend weekly meetings with my advisors. They prepared lessons for him soon after the law was changed."

"Meetings with your advisors, but not with you?" she said pointedly. The sultan said nothing.

It was her turn to sigh in exasperation. "This is exactly what bothers me about you, Father. It's bothered me for years, in fact. You say a lot but don't actually do anything. It's as if you assume there will always be servants to do everything for you, people who can somehow read your mind and will happily carry out all your wishes to perfection. A few years ago you had Jafar basically running the kingdom. Look where that got us. I thought that after that disaster you would change and start effectively using the authority you claim I'll never have. But you haven't."

"Jasmine…" Her father's face flushed with anger, but he tempered it with effort. He averted his eyes for a moment to find his words. "I am old, daughter. I look back on my mistakes and feel regret, but I can do nothing to change the past or myself now. I look forward to the day I may pass on the throne to more youthful hands, and I trust that you will do better than I. And I believe Aladdin will learn. But you must talk to him; without trust, you can accomplish nothing together."

Trust.

_Do you trust me?_

Aladdin had once asked her that, his arm outstretched as the sound of swords being drawn from scabbards reached their ears.

_Yes_, she had answered with the slightest hesitation.

And then they had fallen, plunging a hundred feet down through empty air and tearing canvases, and she could not even scream as her breath was snatched from her in the rush of the moment. She had trusted him then.

But now her trust in the enemy trumped all. If she told anyone the true reason for her recent plans, she trusted that Mozenrath would hold to his end of the deal. They would all lose.

"I'll talk to him," she said simply.

***

6.

It was still as dark as all the nights before, but somehow she could see the outline of his form as he seemed to step out of an unseen opening in the fabric of this dream dimension. He gave a flourishing bow, his customary smile mocking her with unspoken words. _I am winning this game._

She folded her arms and said nothing. His dark eyes watched her curiously. "What, no words tonight, Princess?"

Her rehearsed plans were neatly arranged in her mind, ready to be recited and inevitably rejected. She almost began with them, but in a second she changed her mind.

"You never answered your own question yesterday," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Refresh my memory."

"What is power?"

A light smile returned to his lips. "Ah. Reams of history have been written in blood to pay homage to that question."

He waved his hand and two cushions appeared between them, separated by a low table fashioned out of black wood. He motioned for her to sit.

In a brief absurd moment she heard another question in her mind. _ Do you trust me?_

She had wanted to deal as equals. He was continuing to carry out her request. It was as simple as that. There was no issue of trust here; it would not harm her to sit down on magically conjured fabric or even drink from the cups of tea that had just materialized on the table. If he had wanted to harm her, he would have done it on the first day of this game.

She sat down, her back perfectly straight as she had been taught since childhood, and he settled in a comfortable slouch. Their faces were level with each other.

"You haven't been sleeping much, have you? It seems our nightly chats have taken their toll on you," he said.

"Just answer my question," she said curtly.

"Persistent, just as I thought," he remarked with amusement.

"Insufferable, just as I've thought all along."

He took a sip of tea and continued to observe her face, probably seeing the dark skin under her eyes and the paleness of her complexion. She must have looked the same in this dream state as she did when she was awake. "I really don't think you're looking for answers to philosophical questions tonight, Princess."

"What makes you think that?" she said.

"I am right, am I not?"

"I asked what makes you think that."

"And I am telling you that that question is irrelevant, because now I know I am right."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He pressed on. "Come now, you would have told me I was wrong straightaway if I were really wrong. But you did not."

"What else is there to discuss?" she said tersely, cutting short his moment of victory.

"Perhaps the fact that you are tired, too tired to think, too cynical to try to answer my challenge tonight," he said. Her hand twitched on her cup of tea; she felt no thirst, only the desire to fling the contents in his face.

"I will find the answer, if this challenge is indeed real," she said with sarcasm. "Or perhaps I'll find out that this is just a pathetic game you play so you can force someone to talk to you for more than a few seconds. I imagine it must be terribly lonely to rule an empire of mindless zombies with only a talking eel for company."

"Princess, you must learn to balance insults with civil conversation. You just wasted too much ammunition at the wrong moment. But in seriousness, I will follow my own advice and speak civilly. You have done more than I expected from you in the past week."

She looked at him in surprise.

"You have also exceeded your own expectations, have you not? Rushing about to fortify your little city on your own."

Her eyes narrowed again. "How much have you been watching me?"

"I haven't."

She gave a short laugh. "You expect me to believe that."

"I have no need to watch you; you are quite predictable already."

"How do you know I haven't told anyone else?"

"You wouldn't ask that question if you had."

She sat fuming quietly inside. She had struck out twice this night.

The memory whispered again in her ear. _Do you trust me?_

They had moved beyond questions that could be answered by a simple affirmative or negative. The answers here were open-ended.

"Why do you trust me?" she said.

"I could ask you the same question," he returned casually. He glanced upward at something she could not see, and smiled faintly. "It seems this shall be finished later. Company."

Then he was gone, and the dark faded to blurry colors and the heavy weight of tired eyelids.

***

A hand was shaking her gently by the shoulder.

"Jasmine?"

She opened her eyes. Aladdin's face was hovering over hers. His smile was warm; his other hand was running through her hair.

"Sorry to wake you up. I haven't seen you in a week, so I thought I'd drop by."

Had it been a week? She hadn't realized.

"What time is it?" she asked wearily.

"It's dark outside, and everyone's asleep," he said with a hint of his characteristic mischief. "Now it's time for just us."

She curled her silk blanket tighter around herself and turned on her side. "We'll talk in the morning."

His expression grew more serious. "I hear you've been busy lately; the wedding planners actually came to talk to me because they couldn't get a hold of you. What's been going on?"

"Nothing. Some things just came up, and I had to take care of them," she said. The answer was too vague, she knew, but she could pass it off as a product of her weariness. "I have to take a trip out of Agrabah soon. I'll let you know more about it tomorrow."

His hand stopped running through her hair and came to rest on the small of her back. She could sense him holding back his questions. "Okay, we'll talk later. Sleep in today, all right?"

Her eyes were closed as she felt his lips on her forehead and his voice in her ear. "You can talk to me about anything, you know that. I'm always here for you."

She heard the soft whoosh of the carpet as he left through the window and flew into the night.

***

6.

"That was quick," he remarked coolly as he materialized in a swirl of indigo and black. With a wave of his hand he restored the former setting they had just left. "Now, where were we?"

"I asked you why you trust me."

"Ah. I believe I have already told you the basic reasons. Your persistence. You will play by the rules because that is how you were made to deal with such a challenge. And your fear. You fear for the welfare of your kingdom, and thus will not break the rules to endanger it. I know you well, Princess. Enough to predict your pattern of behavior just as surely as you predict the people around you."

His eyes went to her untouched cup of tea. "Not to your taste? Perhaps some wine then?"

She remained in stony silence as he conjured two glasses that began to fill by themselves. It was law throughout the surrounding kingdoms that alcohol was forbidden to women. A woman could only drink from her husband's cup by his consent.

Mozenrath seemed to ignore her deliberate silence at his deliberate breaking of an age-old law. Perhaps this was some mockery of her wish to deal as equals. "I have given my answer. May I hear yours?"

"Because you are my enemy," she said. "I know you'll always do whatever allows you the most gain and me the most loss."

"That isn't quite fair, now, is it?" he said, slowly swirling the contents of his glass. "My trust is based on who you are regardless of your relation to me. Your trust is based on some blanket assumption of how enemies act in general."

"I have no reason to trust you as anything more than an enemy with destructive intentions toward me and my kingdom," she said in return. "But perhaps what you are really asking is my opinion of you. Very well then. You're insufferably arrogant, driven by ambition for power, and empty at heart. Somewhere in there you have a penchant for sick games, and perhaps a bit of desperation for human company."

"Save some of your ammunition, dear. It may be more useful when I'm in a pissier mood," he said nonchalantly. "Well, then, was there anything else on your mind for tonight?"

"No."

The silence stretched a second longer than it should have as he seemed to search her eyes. Perhaps he was trying to see beyond the wall that guarded her thoughts, where her doubts and frustrations were grating away at their cages of silence. Then with a gesture of his hand, the wine glasses disappeared, as did the table.

"Perhaps our discussion tomorrow will be more to your satisfaction," he said with a half-smile. "But I do hope you have found these accommodations suitable. Goodnight."

He drew his cape around himself and was gone in a swirl of smoke.

***

It was mid-morning when she woke, much later than usual. She was about to stand from her bed when she noticed the small porcelain cup on the table beside her pillow. The tea inside it was cold.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A reply from the neighboring kingdom of Desrial arrived in less than a day. Raeven, the young sultan of that kingdom, had accepted her request for an audience. Jasmine had written a rather candid letter detailing Agrabah's desire to increase trade with the port city and have direct access to the sea. In return she would offer Desrial access to the diamond mines near Agrabah.

The move was meant to counter any plans Mozenrath might have to destroy the kingdom's economy. Direct access to a port was very important; at the moment, a sizable sum of Agrabah's annual revenue from maritime trade went to Desrial as a tax for use of its port. Jasmine hoped that the speedy reply from Raeven meant he would readily accept the proposal. The two kingdoms were on friendly terms, as their fathers had been good friends. Raeven's father had passed away several years earlier, leaving his son to take on the throne just as the young man had entered his adult years. Jasmine's father had often urged her to consider him as a suitor. But he had never once come to Agrabah to ask for her hand in marriage. It had been a surprise and somewhat of an insult to her father that the son of his close friend did not care to strengthen ties between the two kingdoms in such a way. To Jasmine it had merely been a relief.

Before she left her room in the morning, she assigned one of her maids to begin packing her personal articles for the trip. She expected it would only take a day to arrive in Desrial. Negotiations would hopefully take another day at most, and then she would return to Agrabah quickly to begin meetings with the merchants' board to utilize their new trade privileges.

It was almost noon as she walked through the palace to find the chief engineer. She found she lacked the patience to sit and wait for the people she called for. Others thought it was strange behavior for a princess to begin trekking around the palace, and those she tracked down to meet with often feared they had done something that had displeased her. Why else would she personally visit them?

She knew that her recent actions had led to much whispering in high circles. Many thought the princess was growing too bold, that she was overstepping her bounds. In the same breath they spoke of the "street rat's" noninvolvement in the recent flurry of activity, even questioning whether he had secretly agreed to give his future wife the reins to rule. It was frustrating to have to keep her mouth shut when she entered a room and felt an immediate hush fall among its occupants, an embarrassed silence that signified she had been their topic of conversation. It seemed there was a growing fear that she would do the kingdom ill on the mere grounds that she was a woman, unfit to rule.

Her father was right; she needed to talk to Aladdin and figure out some way to involve him in this. At present she did not know when he would show up to talk with her as they had agreed the night before. She trusted he could find her if he really wanted to; in the meantime she would continue to carry on her own affairs in the palace.

She entered the spacious office of the latest chief engineer. With his tastes for beautifying the palace and its grounds, her father had hired and fired several engineers and architects in the past few years. She had not encountered him much, having never bothered with such projects outside of embellishing her own quarters.

The man stood up immediately from his overstuffed divan and bowed low, caught unawares by her sudden entrance. The servant girls who had been hand-feeding him grapes and massaging his feet scurried away, hiding their faces.

"Ah…Your Highness, what may I do for you?" he stammered, wringing his long-fingered hands nervously. His long chestnut curls of hair had fallen haphazardly around his slim shoulders; one of his servants had only half-finished grooming it. She decided she didn't like him at all. He was a frivolous waste of palace finances, thanks to her father's poor taste.

"What are you supposed to be doing for the kingdom?" she asked curtly.

"Th…the sultan's orders, Princess…I am heading the construction of a new menagerie in the east gardens…"

A menagerie?

She kept her anger in check. It would be no use unleashing it on the hapless man; after all, it was her father who desired such inane, costly things.

"I was not aware of that. But you will put that project on hold for now. You have received orders from me to work on the underground shelters, have you not?"

"Yes, I have, Your Highness…but the sultan…"

"My father knows that the security of the kingdom takes precedence over his menagerie," she said coldly. "You will begin construction of the shelters as soon as possible. Consult with the other engineers about the best way to carry out my orders, and report to me when you have formed a workable plan."

"Y…yes, Your Highness. Immediately," he said, giving another obsequious bow. She left the room before he raised his head.

After her conversation with her father the day before, he still had not made any changes to his lackadaisical way of doing things. She had openly confronted him with his greatest flaws, one of which was idleness, and he had done nothing about it.

Her footsteps seemed to echo more loudly down the halls now. Somehow they were in conjunction with her heartbeat, quick and impatient. She tried to breathe more calmly, to slow the fury still building up inside her. Why was she alone in this? Why did her father not understand how incompetent, how petty he was? Why didn't he change?

Think logically, she told herself. He didn't know about Mozenrath's plan. That made all the difference. Why be anxious if you could not sense any kind of threat to the kingdom? Why bother to change your ways if you were old and soon to retire?

But no amount of logic could calm her at the moment. There was just too much to worry about, too much that she was responsible for. She entered her bedchamber and all but slammed the door behind her, walking straight toward a side room to find shoes fit for walking outside. She had to make a trip herself down into the shelters to see their present condition. If she could just-

"Jasmine."

She stopped halfway through the doorframe and looked across her main room to see Aladdin sitting on the balustrade outside the window and Carpet floating beside him.

"You have time to talk?" he called.

"Yeah, just let me get something," she answered, snatching the first pair of shoes she saw that looked like they could withstand rocky ground.

He looked at her feet as she approached him. "First time I've seen you wear shoes that don't match your outfit. You sure you're okay?"

"Ha," she said dryly. "I'm okay. Let's talk."

"Let's fly."

He took her hand and helped her settle comfortably on the magic carpet. They sat in silence for several minutes as they slowly circled the palace grounds. He drew her close to him, letting her back rest against his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair. The motion had always been calming to her, and it helped a little in easing her tension now. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze brush her skin.

"What's on your mind?" he said softly.

_Where should I begin?_

"My father's been bothering me. A lot," she said. "I used to always be angry with him for not understanding me or listening to me. It got better in the past few years but yesterday and today were just…"

She sighed. "He treats me like a child and doesn't take me seriously. It's so frustrating, Aladdin."

"Yeah, I got that sense when I first met you," he chuckled wryly. "What happened yesterday and today?"

"In general he's just frivolous. He wastes the kingdom's money on stupid things like a new menagerie when there are a lot more important things to spend our resources on. And when I tell him he should do things differently, he doesn't listen. Even if he agrees with me on some points, he doesn't do anything to change his ways."

"Hmm." She could sense him thinking about what to say without being too harsh on her father. Aladdin had always been more accepting of others' flaws than she, maybe because he hadn't been born into privilege, into expecting a lot from others. "He is pretty old, Jasmine. It's hard for someone his age to change. Some people just aren't made the way you are, always taking initiative to get what you want."

"But he does take initiative to get what he wants," she replied stubbornly. "The problem is that's the only thing he ever takes initiative for. Whatever greater problems may be facing the kingdom, they all seem to take second place to his little whims."

"I understand," he said. "I'd be frustrated too."

It was so easy for him to acquiesce. She had been prepared to argue with him, she realized. She had subconsciously expected him to defend her father, even welcoming him to, just so she could have someone to antagonize and fight against to prove she was right. The realization sickened her. Aladdin was simpler than she, perhaps. But he was better at heart. Most of the times when they fought, it started with her getting upset and wanting to argue. He only argued when he felt very strongly about something.

"I guess I'll just have to deal with it for now. If my father isn't going to change then I'll just have to do more to make up for it," she said.

"What exactly have you been doing?" he asked. "Half the palace seems to be running under your orders at the moment."

"I realized there's a lot to be done to improve the defenses and strength of Agrabah," she began. "So I am implementing plans to make this kingdom a better place on all fronts."

"Uh…care to be more specific?"

"The border patrols are training their dogs to recognize more types of dangerous substances that could be brought into the city," she said. She had almost mentioned black sand but had caught herself. She didn't want him to connect any of these plans with a specific enemy. "This morning I just got done talking to the chief engineer about expanding the underground shelters in case of a desert storm. I've got the historian looking into legends of jinnis in other lands; don't want any enemies using that kind of magic against us."

He interrupted her. "That's a lot already. You thought of all this in just a week?"

"I've thought of more than that."

He shook his head. "Jasmine, you are pretty amazing. Whenever you say you're going to do something, I know you're going to do it to perfection. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She paused. She had expected him to ask why she was doing what she was doing, not to offer help. She suddenly felt more hopeful; perhaps she had doubted him too much.

But at the same time she could not imagine relinquishing any of these projects to anyone else. She trusted herself to be able to implement them the most effectively. Aladdin had little management experience outside of leading small groups against Agrabah's enemies. Battle experience did not give him the capability to oversee a construction project or build relationships with foreign rulers. What could she have him do?

"I'm going to Desrial soon to negotiate for increased trade and access to its port," she said, hesitating before her next question. "Maybe you could take care of things here while I'm gone?"

"Wow, you're taking a trip out there so quickly? I'll watch the kingdom while you're gone, no problem. But you're doing so much; why the rush?"

She sighed, finally faced with the question she was still unsure how to answer. "I guess I've grown up. There's been a lull in the past month, no one's invaded Agrabah or threatened our lives in any way. I just started wondering when the next day of trouble would come, and I realized that it's better to prevent it from coming than to wait for it."

"That's a good perspective to have. But why are you so worried? You've done more than enough to help the kingdom in the past several days. Knowing you, everything you've set out to do will be finished sooner than anyone expects. If some enemy does come calling before your projects are completed, that's still okay; we'll find a way to deal with it, just like we have every time in the past."

"I'm worried because that's what preparing for the throne does to you," she said. "Aren't you worried? You're going to be sultan soon. You'll have responsibility over the entire kingdom."

He was watching the marketplace streets below, filled with people going about their daily business. She could see him thinking about the responsibility that hung over them both.

"I used to worry," he said as they glided over a high rooftop. "I told you about that time when you still thought I was Prince Ali, and your father presented me to the city as your betrothed; I was deathly afraid, enough to deny Genie my promise of wishing him free. I thought I'd need him to help me fulfill a role I wasn't ready to take on."

"What changed your mind? Well, besides defeating Jafar and saving the kingdom and all that," she said with a dry laugh. Maybe Aladdin had been diligently preparing for his ascension to the throne, and she just hadn't noticed.

"Well, defeating Jafar and every other enemy that's come our way definitely helped. We've always won and preserved the kingdom, though there have been some close calls. I think we can deal with any threat now without too much worry. And we have Genie, of course. Have you thought about asking him for help in these projects you're undertaking?"

"No, I haven't. Having Genie is not the point," she said, disappointed in his answer. "All our victories against enemies have been about strategy and battle tactics, not about being a real ruler. Any smart soldier with magic and a bit of luck could succeed as we have. What I'm talking about is governance. Taking care of the kingdom in its day-to-day affairs."

"I've lived on the streets for enough of my life to know what the kingdom's day-to-day affairs are," he said, starting to sound defensive. "I know the poor, the needy, the orphans, the beggars. I know how the common people think and what they want. Heck, I'm still one of them, regardless of the fact I'm engaged to you. I'd say I'm the best bet for the palace's relationship with the populace. They see me as one of them and they trust me for it."

"That's true. I didn't think of that," she admitted. She looked below as they flew over a school for orphans. The dilapidated house had no roof; she could see dozens of children in rags, sitting in neat rows before a tired-looking old woman. Compassion stirred in her, and she almost turned the magic carpet downward to visit them. But as they flew on she saw even poorer people, lying emaciated in alleyways, some of them missing limbs, some nursing open sores from skin diseases. Aladdin had grown up among these people; he had been an orphan, destitute, ignored by society. He must have seen tragic scenes like this every day. How had he not grown numb to it? His heart was still full of compassion for the populace. She could see it in his eyes as he looked down at the city.

Still, she had to press on with the reality that they faced now. "What have you done for the city outside of fighting off its enemies?"

"I think most of the time we've been so busy fighting off enemies that neither of us have thought much about governance. But I really think that fending for the kingdom like we have is the most important thing. Agrabah has held up for centuries through good and bad governors. The bigger danger is outside threats, and you know I'm good at dealing with those."

"Of course they're important, but I don't think they're the most important. A kingdom has to be strong from within—the entire kingdom, not just a band of loyal defenders like our group. And when there are no threats, like now," she said, feeling the lie slip unobtrusively through her lips, "the people will be looking at how effective and fair we are in governing their everyday lives. After all, the power of a kingdom lies in its populace, not its rulers."

Reiterating the thought she had shared with Mozenrath was strange. She felt as if she shouldn't have said that to Aladdin, as if she had given too much away. But of course he knew nothing about her nightly conversations with the sorcerer and what kinds of things she had realized through them.

"Jasmine, I think you're worrying too much," he said. "The city likes us both just fine. We're heroes for crying out loud. And with all these improvements you're making now, they'll trust us even more in the future."

"Public opinion is a fickle mistress." Another echo from a conversation with the dark sorcerer. "They may like us both now, but we can't take our popularity for granted. And the nobility…"

It was difficult to bring up the topic. Aladdin was rather sensitive to the issue of the nobility's opposition to his coronation. He couldn't stand their condescending attitude toward him and everyone else beneath their social class. She could see the muscles in his neck tense as he continued to gaze at the streets below. They were nearing the edge of the city.

"I've been hearing whispers around the palace," she said, changing her approach. "They've been talking about how I shouldn't be doing so much as a woman. That I'm breaking convention and propriety with the projects I've been undertaking."

"To hell with what they think. You've never cared about how snobby nobles view you, Jasmine. Why start now?" he asked.

"Old ways of thinking are hard to change; it's just like what you said about my father," she replied. "They're not going to stop me from what I'm doing for the sake of the kingdom. But the other thing they're saying is that a woman shouldn't overpower her husband. The sultan is the head of the kingdom, and the sultana is his first support."

He looked at her strangely. "I never thought I'd hear you say something like that. You really sure you're okay?"

"Aladdin, I'm fine. I want to know what you think of that."

"What I think of what? The idea that a woman should be subservient to her husband? Jasmine, is this a trick question or something?" he laughed. "Of course I don't expect you to be subservient. We're equals; that was established from the beginning. You should do what you need to do to rule effectively."

"That's not my point," she said with testy patience as the sand dunes swirled below them. It was a particularly windy day. "Regardless of what we think about each other, what matters is what the people think of us, especially of your role. They expect that you will be the leader. I trust that you can be. But you first need to show evidence of leadership, not just heroism."

She hoped that her assertion of trust in him would ease the tone of the conversation. The air between them was too tense, even as it rushed by them in mid-flight. She did not totally believe he was capable of ruling well, but she had committed herself to him and had to support him.

"So what you're saying is, I need to start doing what you've been doing," Aladdin said, looking at her for confirmation.

"Yes. Think of ways to defend the kingdom, and start implementing them."

"Why didn't you just say that in the beginning?" he said, puzzled. "It could have saved us a lot of time."

'Saved us a lot of time?' Hadn't he learned anything from all they had said?

"Because I wanted you to realize it on your own," she almost snapped back. "I didn't want to have to tell you something you should already be thinking about. I don't want to have to tell you to lead, Aladdin. If you were ready to lead then you wouldn't need me to say anything."

"I'm not sure I understand you, Jasmine. You've always enjoyed having authority and making all the decisions, so I've let you. You're the one who was always going around breaking convention on what women should or shouldn't do. But now you've suddenly changed your mind and want me to take charge? And you expect me to just read your thoughts and know what you want from me?" He shook his head. "I'm confused. Maybe you can explain more."

She took a deep breath so that she could bring herself to apologize. It was still hard for her to acknowledge she was wrong, even to someone she loved.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to confuse you like that. I've grown up a lot in the past week, and I've realized that I can't do everything on my own, neither do I want to. I want you to be a part of this with me. I already look up to you because you're a good person and you love me more than I could have ever expected. But I also want to look up to you as a leader of this kingdom. I want to see you able to run the kingdom if I'm not here, and have the respect of everyone who's ever doubted you." She paused and changed her wording. She suddenly realized that even in her manner of speaking, she was arrogant, always talking about what she wanted instead of giving him room to decide on his own. "So it's my hope that you'll take initiative to learn what you haven't learned yet about ruling. Maybe you can begin during my trip to Desrial."

"Okay, I understand what you mean. I'll start when you go to Desrial," he said. He flashed her a smile, breaking the tension between them. She smiled back as the wind tousled his uncombed hair. "Thanks for letting me know what's on your mind. If anything's bothering you in the future, please tell me sooner. You shouldn't have to bear such burdens alone."

She leaned against his shoulder as they flew back toward the palace. It was a familiar route, but as of late they had spent little time together like this. She remembered the first time he had taken her on such a ride. The rushing wind had snatched her breath away the moment the carpet had shot into the star-streaked sky, and she had clung to him for dear life as they plummeted upwards instead of downwards like they had in the marketplace. She had put her trust in him then as the first suitor to truly impress her, and had thought of a boy on the street with a similar smile and a similar warmth in the touch of his hands.

The rest of her day passed quite quickly after Aladdin left. As the crickets began their nightly song outside, she lay awake in the darkness, thinking about him.

Her unease hadn't gone away completely, but she had more confidence in her fiancé than before. She could trust him because of his character and his love for her. He had an unwavering sense of what was right, and had no desire for power.

He was one of the few people in history who had been a master of a jinni, and he had used his wishes for love, not to obtain power or accomplish some selfish end. His wish to become a prince had had nothing to do with desiring the wealth and authority that accompanied such a title. It had all to do with winning her heart. And his last wish had been for love as well—love for his friend, to see Genie live free instead of guaranteeing his own happiness.

She would never have to fear that he would use his power as sultan for corrupt ends. He might be naïve and make mistakes, but he would not be selfish and greedy. Today had reminded of her of the good man he was and the strength of their love, which she trusted could bring them through any problems that came between them.

There was just one problem for now that had to be left unspoken. She closed her eyes and thought of the man waiting for her to call. Here was the reason she still felt unease toward Aladdin. It would not be resolved until the end of thirty days, and it could not be resolved by anyone but her.

She wondered fleetingly then, if she could pass Mozenrath's challenge onto anyone else, would she? Would she pass it on to Aladdin?

She realized the answer was still no—

Dread filled her as she realized something else: she could trust absolutely no one.

What if Mozenrath had already begun carrying out his plan and had just been deceiving her for entertainment? What if he hadn't been watching her in the past week because he had already infiltrated the palace and had spies to watch her for him? Did he have any of her friends under his control?

She thought of Aladdin's eyes, his smile that day. They were real. They had to be. He was not under Mozenrath's control. Surely she would notice if he were?

What of her father? The guards? All the civil servants she had been speaking with?

She calmed herself by the force of her will. She should not be paranoid. As far as she knew, mind control was a difficult spell to cast and maintain effectively. She thought back to Jafar, whose sorcery had been quite powerful. Aladdin had noticed straightaway that he had cast a spell on her father. Surely it would be the same with Mozenrath, even though he was more powerful than Jafar.

Everyone was loyal to her at the moment. Her plans were being obeyed, and as she kept a close eye on everything, there had been no sabotage.

She had to find out what Mozenrath's real motive was. In all her encounters with him, he had never done anything just for entertainment or 'a challenge' as he claimed this time. He had always acted to gain more power for himself. For these thirty days then, what could his purpose be?

Her guesses at his supposedly foolproof plan would be secondary now to her conjectures of his true intent. Power…she would ask him the question again, the question he had not bothered to answer though it had been voiced twice. She would force an answer from him somehow.

And as a precaution, she would guard herself carefully around everyone in the palace. She would be on heightened alert for anyone who acted differently than usual, even Aladdin and those who were closest to her. Especially those who were closest to her.

Trust was usually a difficult thing for her. But for now, it was impossible.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

7.

The accommodations this time were the same as the night before. Low table, cushions, tea.

As she sat down, she noticed something about her own attire that was not right.

In the morning, her maid had taken her clothes to be washed. Jasmine had put on more conservative clothing to sleep in, a long robe that covered her arms and her midriff. But what she wore now in this dream state was the same lavender two-piece outfit she had worn to sleep every day the past week.

She looked up accusingly at the sorcerer sitting across the table from her. He propped his chin on one hand and watched her with a cool smile.

She folded her arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way her outfit bared her skin, though he had seen her wear this for six or seven nights straight. His smile grew wider at the sight of her discomfort.

"The rules of this game are all yours, as is this little dream world you have set up. At least you could give me some measure of control over what I'm wearing," she snapped.

"Ah. Well, one of the rules of this 'dream world,' as you call it, is that we see what I would like to see," he said nonchalantly. He paused to let her digest that unsettling bit of information. "Were I a cruder man…"

He raised his gloved hand and her cup of tea disappeared right before she could fling it in his face.

"As I said once before, humor does not seem to come naturally to you royal types." He eyed her hand, now curled into a fist on the table where the cup had been. "Violence does, however."

"Would you like to test that hypothesis again?" she said angrily. "Take off that gauntlet of yours and try."

"Easy, Princess. At least give the illusion of delicacy."

"You can't do anything without your gauntlet, can you?" she went on. He had stepped over the line tonight, and she was sick of being on the receiving end of his power trips. "Aladdin told me that the one time you lost it in the sand, you started digging as if your life depended on it. You even let him and Genie go because you couldn't do a thing against them without that worn-looking thing."

He was taken aback by her sudden backlash, but his surprise quickly turned to annoyance and contempt. "You know nothing of the gauntlet. Don't bother to try to wrap your petty little mind around it."

"I think I know enough about it to have hit upon your weakness, Mozenrath. Without that glove, you're nothing. You bound yourself to it because of your greed for power and now you're condemned to a slow death. But even death is better than being separated from your precious power, isn't it?"

He narrowed his eyes, his lips curving in a sneer of utter disdain at her bold statement. She had struck gold then. She flashed him a sweet smile of triumph and revenge.

"Power comes at a cost," he said simply. His voice was level and cold. "I will say it again: you know nothing of this gauntlet, and you know nothing of power. It runs in your veins and has been spoon-fed to you since birth, yet you are blind to it. You are right in that I treasure power. Thus it pains me to see it wasted on one such as yourself."

"What does it mean to 'know' power?" she questioned. "You seem to think that using it to harm people and destroy things means you have knowledge of it. If that's the definition you're going by, then I guess I really am clueless about it."

He gave a short, cruel laugh. "Princess, I think you only insult yourself when you continue making such inane assumptions about me. Since when have I ever harmed people and destroyed things as ends in themselves? I am not so petty."

"Alright, then you enjoy destruction as a means to an end, to gain even more power for yourself. That's the basic reason for this game, isn't it?" She took the chance to channel the conversation in the direction she wanted. "You gave me this thirty-day challenge so you can enjoy gloating over me before getting to your actual plan to take over. Knowing that you can keep the princess of Agrabah on her toes for thirty days is quite a power trip for you. Especially when you can decide what she wears."

"I would watch how far I tread if I were you," he said casually. His eyes did not leave her face as he continued. "Especially when I can decide what you wear."

It took a great measure of control not to slap him after that remark. She was determined not to let him win this time. In a split-second she thought to strike at another weakness she was sure he had.

She had yet to meet a man who did not desire her on some level, whether he tried to hide it or not. Mozenrath had never made his attraction to her a secret. He seemed to enjoy making her squirm with suggestive remarks that exposed that side of him. But this time she would be the one to set him on edge.

With steady hands, she pulled her long hair loose from its bands. It cascaded around her shoulders in smooth waves, brushing the bare skin exposed by the outfit he had chosen to see. She leaned forward slowly, her hands planted by her sides, her eyes challenging his to break contact.

"You can decide, Mozenrath," she said in a different tone of voice. Her heart raced as she said the words, telling her this was wrong, that she was going too far for the sake of a small victory. But she had already started; it would only be more humiliating to turn back now. She stepped up her challenge, loosening her shoulders so that with each inch forward, the fabric of her top slipped downward.

He watched her, expressionless, his cheek resting against his gloved hand. She reached up to touch his face, wondering if he would be able to feel her heart pounding through her fingers.

To her surprise, he caught her hand before she could touch his skin, and looked coldly into her eyes. A wave of nausea washed through her as she felt the skeletal frame of his dead hand through the fabric of his gauntlet.

"Know exactly what you want before you act," he said softly. "That was a poorly thought-out course of action, Princess. Were I a cruder man, what would you have done?"

He released her hand, still expressionless as the spell she had cast over her own senses broke, to her humiliation. What would she have done if he had accepted her advances? She had indeed expected him to; her plan, simple and stupid, was to capitalize on a man's weakness. But to what end? She had been digging her own grave from the moment she had let down her hair. A wave of relief quickly replaced the queasiness she had felt from touching the gauntlet.

Relief in turn was followed by guilt. She was committed to Aladdin, yet she had tried to tempt another man. Not out of lust, but out of a spur-of-the-moment desire for power. She was as bad as she claimed Mozenrath was—wanting to gloat over someone else, to know she had power over him.

The silence was heavy with her embarrassment. She refused to meet his eyes, instead busying herself with retying her hair. She suspected he was gloating over her at the moment, and expected the insults to begin any second.

None came. The next words he spoke took her by surprise. "Power comes at a cost," he repeated. There was no arrogance in his voice. "I sense you are turning over that little firsthand lesson in your head now. Know what kind of cost you are willing to pay before making a gamble for power. The cost that it exacts cannot be refunded."

She had nothing to say in reply. At present, anything she said would sound foolish to them both. Her regret of her spontaneous decision was building by the second. She wanted nothing more than to end their meeting now and forget about what she had done.

He went on, unperturbed by her silence. "It seems that among the company you keep, only the jinni knows the cost of power. Perhaps the nature of a genie is the clearest illustration of it. Beings with immense power, the power to create and destroy, change destinies for better or worse. Their abilities are limitless except for three prohibitions. But the cost…they are shackled to a lamp and the will of mortals, endless possibilities confined to petty human whims."

"No freedom," she mused, remembering how sad Genie had looked after Jafar's defeat, even as he smiled upon her and Aladdin together. He had never known freedom, and thought he would never see it until Aladdin's selfless wish.

"Indeed. Your jinni's current state of existence goes against the rules of his nature," he commented dryly.

"You must be quite proud of yourself, then," she said, "to have both power and freedom."

He looked at her amusedly, perhaps because it had taken her only a minute to begin insulting him again. "Proud? Freedom is not a reason for pride, Princess. Neither is power in itself. It is the cost of gaining and bearing power that justifies my pride. You have sacrificed nothing for your power; it was all handed to you at birth. Your street rat has also had the good fortune of having all his desires fulfilled without any effort on his part. Perhaps that is why the two of you get along so well."

"There has been a cost," she asserted. "For me, at least."

"As of late, yes, I have noticed," he said. "How does it feel?"

"Tiring." It was the first word to come to mind. She abruptly stopped herself from saying more, wondering why she should bother to answer his question. He would not show sympathy, only disdain.

He nodded slowly. "Paranoia and insecurity go along with it also, I believe. You are experiencing the consequences of knowing how much power you wield, knowing you are responsible for what happens when you exercise it. By nature you are needy for control. I imagine it has been very difficult for you to feel like it is slipping away from you."

"I'm not losing control," she said defensively. "I've only gained more control over the kingdom's welfare in the past week."

"Princess, the very fact that you must contradict me on this point shows that you very much fear losing control. You must always be right; you must always have the last word; you must never back down even when you know you are wrong. You are stubborn, annoyingly so."

She almost opened her mouth to respond but realized that she would only be feeding his perception of her further. He was right in large part, but she would be hard-pressed to admit it openly. He had won too many victories tonight, as usual. She decided to change the focus of the conversation.

"Then I have Aladdin to balance me out. He doesn't worry about responsibility or power because he has no desire for it, no natural inclination for control. He just wants the best for the kingdom and those he loves. It's said that the best leader is a man who does not desire to lead or wield power. That's the kind of man he is."

"What does your street rat have to do with this conversation?" Mozenrath asked. "You've never had so many good things to say about him before. Could it be that you're finally willing to play second fiddle to a man?"

"I'll support whoever makes a good leader," she replied. "That's always been the way I operate."

"Somehow I don't quite believe that, Princess. Though you incessantly accuse me of arrogance, you are quite diseased with it yourself. Since when have you ever followed anyone's will but your own?"

"I haven't followed anyone because no one has been worthy of my confidence. And with my standing, the only person I may follow is my father, but he has failed at leadership."

"Ah, your father. Another example of a pampered waste of power," he remarked. He noticed the way she bristled at his crude wording and smiled. "You are in agreement with me on this. There is no reason to cringe at the truth."

"He is still my father," she said, but felt little strength behind her words. She had been railing against the sultan for days, yet she was offended when her enemy shared her opinion. But perhaps she was justified; her father, though incompetent, was a good man. Mozenrath was not.

"The more honest you are with yourself, the easier it will be to handle power and all that comes with it. There is no reason to try to alter your gut opinions for the sake of comfort or propriety."

"I have been honest. I've actually confronted my father with what I think. But he hasn't changed anything," she said. She wasn't sure why she was telling him this. Perhaps she just needed to vent to someone, even though she had already talked to Aladdin.

"You mean he hasn't stopped playing with children's toys? A pity; I thought he might have at least moved on to magical pursuits. There is much entertainment in them, at least in my experience," he said lightly.

He saw the indignant look in her eyes again and laughed. "You seem to find offense in everything I say, whether it is a joke, an insult, or a mere statement of truth. There is truly no way to make you happy. I wonder how your street rat deals with you."

"I find offense in your very being, I thought you knew that," she shot back.

"And I find amusement in yours. I believe you know that, but can't quite accept it."

She folded her arms and glared at him. They were silent for several seconds, having reached a standoff. He shifted his weight and continued to watch her, his cool, calculating gaze never leaving her face.

"In seriousness, power affects people in different ways," he said, his tone formal and cold. "Your father is an example of one such way. Given power and privilege at birth, he has spent his days taking it all for granted. Of course, all rulers must take some responsibility for their realm, and so he has to the best of his limited ability. But I believe he sees power mostly as a method for seeking entertainment and comfort. He may have been given power and privilege, but he was not endowed with the mental faculties needed to properly conceptualize his lot in life. In normal circumstances, such a ruler would lead his kingdom to ruin. He has been fortunate to have capable advisors to make up for his weaknesses."

"Capable advisors. You mean Jafar?" she questioned sarcastically.

"Yes, especially Jafar," he responded, to her surprise. "Personal motives aside, Jafar was an excellent advisor. He basically ran the kingdom in place of your father, did he not? Agrabah faced no wars, no civil unrest, no economic depression during his tenure. Or perhaps you were too busy primping your hair to notice.

"And," he went on, "you are only beginning to become aware of how power affects you. I take it you have stopped spending so much time on primping and have begun focusing on important matters of the kingdom. You said yourself that the burden of responsibility is great, and it tires you. This is only the surface cost, Princess. You have only begun to learn."

She fought the temptation to give a retort against his blunt words. He was speaking more civilly this time, not focusing on insults but on…teaching her? It puzzled her that their conversation this night had taken such a turn.

Was his goal for this game to teach her about power? It was an absurd thought, but it seemed true except for the fact that he was her enemy, and enemies never intended to help, only to weaken and destroy.

"How has power affected you?" she said without malice. It was the first question she had asked him that had no ulterior motive, no aim to insult or to dig out a hint of his plan.

"The first thing it did was exact its cost," he replied calmly. He raised his gloved hand. "You know what is beneath this."

She did, and felt slightly sick.

"You know, but you don't really know," he said, musing more to himself than to her. "How could someone with two arms know what it feels like to have only one?"

She remembered her first moment of great fear and loss of control. She had ventured into the marketplace on her own, having never walked through it as a commoner before. She had known nothing of cost, then, not even the simple monetary costs of the fruit piled high in the carts around her. And because of her ignorance, she had almost lost a hand to a vendor's sword. For that split-second, she had imagined living without a limb.

No, she corrected. She had imagined the pain of the sword. She had given little thought afterward to what daily life would have been like without such a vital appendage.

Mozenrath had experienced both the pain and the difficulty of living crippled. But his hand seemed to function fine without its flesh. Perhaps she pitied him more than she should.

"I have no feeling in this arm," he said, as if he had read her thoughts. He flexed his fingers, and she heard the bones clicking underneath the glove. "Convenient at times, I suppose. But not a day goes by without my thinking of its loss. Imagine your right hand as bleached white bones, Princess. You would have to be careful touching your own skin lest you draw blood. You would have to relearn how to hold a quill, to open doors, even to eat. You would be unable to touch your lover without causing him to cringe, though he might try to hide his disgust. And you wouldn't be able to paint your nails anymore, either."

His bitter laugh was unnerving. She spoke quietly. "Do you still feel pain?"

He looked at her coolly with eyes that had seen far more than she had in their relatively young lives. "The pain is always there," he answered plainly. "The gauntlet never stops demanding payment for its power."

"Why don't you remove it?"

His gaze did not falter as he seemed to consider answering her question, then decided on another course of action. She almost shrank back before catching herself as he wordlessly removed the glove and set it on the table before her. Her eyes were helplessly drawn to the perturbing sight of his exposed arm, his long sleeve covering most of the bones. It looked wrong, so utterly wrong for a young man to carry death on his arm. It was wrong for any living being.

"I can remove it for a time," he said simply. "But it can never be far from me."

Her heart began to race as she reached forward, hesitantly, fearfully. He watched her without expression as she touched the gauntlet with her own hands. She could sense him studying her reaction, as if he expected her to flinch away. Her eyes went from the glove to his face as she wondered how much he trusted her.

His greatest weapon was now in her hands. This was a dream world, but it felt like reality. The glove she was examining was made of real fabric and the real potential to wreak destruction.

If she put it on…

It would cost her an arm. But it would give her power, the power to win against him. Mozenrath was powerless now, wasn't he? She could make herself the gauntlet's new master, and render him powerless for life.

"Do not be foolish."

Her thoughts were broken by his calm voice. She looked at him in surprise tinged with guilt.

"You have no sense of magic; your body has no ability to harness it. The gauntlet would kill you," he said bluntly. His smile was cruel, devoid of humor. "You want to feel the cost of power that badly? Have patience, Princess. You will learn.

"It may not take the flesh off your bones. But it will take many other things that you currently cannot imagine living without. Your youth, your energy, your beauty, your dreams and passions and love…it will take it all and sacrifice it for the sake of whatever you wish to use your power for. Foolishly noble as you are, I imagine it is for the sake of your kingdom. It will take from you in accordance with how much you wield."

He reached forward and took the gauntlet back from her, his bony fingers brushing her hand for a second. She did not flinch.

She had always thought him a fool for craving power so badly, for using his gauntlet for destruction and conquest. She had thought it served him right to have to suffer for his greed and the sins it led him to commit. But the only sentiment that came to her mind now was pity. He must have seen it in her eyes, for he tugged the gauntlet onto his hand a bit more forcefully than necessary, his lip curling in contempt at how ignorant he thought she still was.

She had seen and felt the price of power—the price it demanded from him. The sensory memory of cold, dry bones brushing her skin did not fade as she watched him with a new kind of respect. He must have noticed the change, because his look of contempt changed just slightly to a nod of acceptance; he accepted that she understood, or at least that she was trying.

Perhaps it was the first time they had truly dealt as equals, though they were still enemies.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Another day passed, and she was ready to leave for Desrial the next morning. Aladdin came to her room that night, and they spoke of what he would have to do while she was gone. She was grateful for his initiative, that he was carrying through with his desire to help her and the kingdom.

At some point he noticed the scattered pieces of parchment tucked in haphazard places—crumpled beneath her pillow, sticking out of her desk drawers, pinned underneath chairs. He took one before she could stop him, and raised an eyebrow as he read it.

"'The Rose. Forget who we are, then take over.' What is this supposed to mean?" he asked, puzzled.

"Just a thought I had about what an enemy might try to do someday," she said nonchalantly, and began gathering the other notes. "You know, the Rose of Forgetfulness. Make us forget who we are and then take power from us."

"Oh…I see," he said, still sounding uncertain. "But we don't fall for the same tricks twice."

"That's what we hope, at least," she replied as she placed the rest of the parchment inside a drawer.

"Can't be too careful, I guess," he said in acquiescence. "I definitely wouldn't want to see you forget me again."

"I wouldn't want to see you forget me either. Especially not so you can leave me for a certain sand witch."

He laughed. "Oh come on, Jasmine. Are you still sore about that?"

"I'm just kidding. I know you'd never try anything," she said. The only reason she had mentioned Sadira was to prevent him from thinking of other enemies.

"I'd never even _think _of trying anything," he emphasized. "You know that!"

"I know, I know," she said as he reached for her. They reclined on her sofa in silence for a few minutes, his arm around her waist.

"I'll miss you tomorrow."

"I'm only leaving for two or three days."

"Doesn't matter how long."

She sighed at the warmth of his words. He kissed her then, long and slow. She relaxed in his arms, letting go of her worries for just that moment. She let go of her guilt as well, the guilt that she had come close to betraying him the night before.

He trusted her so much; it was painful not to be able to return it. She just had to love him as best as she could now, with the weight of Mozenrath's challenge on her shoulders.

He left from the balcony as usual, letting her rest before her journey in the morning.

She lay down to sleep, her pillow feeling different without the wads of parchment beneath it. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking.

There was no reason to call for Mozenrath; she had nothing to say. And her guilt had returned the moment Aladdin had left.

Mozenrath had told her to be honest with herself; it would make things easier. So she did not deny that she was afraid. She was not only afraid for her kingdom and the things the sorcerer could do to it, but afraid for herself, for what he could do to her by merely speaking his mind. The wisdom he held over her, his experience with handling power, his intimate familiarity with the cost of such power…the night before had shown her enough of what lay beneath his smirk and veneer of cruel politeness. She needed time to think about all she had learned.

***

8.

***

The sun beat down on her without mercy. A white robe shielded her skin from its blistering rays, and the canteen at her side offered temporary relief as she rode on through the desert. Her entourage of guards and merchants on horses and camels plodded on in silence. All around her, the desert sands glistened with reflections of the sky, the air on the horizon wavering in the heat. Were their animals less trained, they would have been tempted to move quickly ahead for water that was not actually there.

She wiped the sweat off her brow and took another swig from the canteen. A servant refilled it for her in quiet routine. She gave the teenager a nod and a smile. He turned his face downward with deference and the shyness of a young man facing a beautiful woman.

She had begun appreciating things she had never bothered to notice before. Like the way her servants bowed to her every whim and rushed to fulfill her needs without her explicit orders. Several years ago she had found her maids annoying at times with how much they fussed over her wardrobe and the cleanliness of her room. In her petulance she had even trained Rajah to growl at anyone outside of her father and favorite tutors.

How spoiled she had been. Mozenrath was right. She had taken her power for granted and focused on its small insignificant trappings instead of the bigger picture.

Their last conversation had complicated her thoughts about the entire situation. What kind of challenge was this, exactly? Why did he seem to be helping instead of harming her?

She had always known that he desired her, but she had chosen to ignore that from the beginning of the game. She had immediately ruled out the possibility of him trying to win her affections, as he had always shown nothing but disdain toward any kind of sentiment. If he wanted her physically, there was nothing stopping him from just taking what he wanted from her; there was no need for a thirty-day game.

But now even his desire for her was in question. In a foolish blunder she had all but exposed herself to him, and he had soundly rejected her.

So then this game's purpose was still to gain power over much more than just her. And she still could not figure out how.

She turned her mind to the task at hand, dealing with another man of power. The next day she would have an audience with the sultan of Desrial. The last time she had seen him was at his coronation several years earlier. It had been a solemn ceremony, his family just emerging from grief over his father's death.

They had often played together as children. Though he was not much older than she, he had always played the hero and she the young distressed maiden. He had never quite understood her insistence that they take turns playing the hero. She remembered feeling annoyed when he treated her as if she were helpless and brainless, as most people tended to do merely because she was a princess. Princesses weren't meant to ride horses or fight with swords. They were meant to sit in towers and wait for princes, and perhaps sleep in the meantime to preserve their beauty.

It was night by the time they arrived at the border of Desrial. They stopped to rest in a small town where foreign dignitaries and wealthy travelers often stayed. The sentries at the gate ushered them toward a private inn owned by a noble family. Two of her guards had already taken their stations outside the door of her chambers by the time she reached it. She paused before entering the room and thanked them for their service. They bowed with proper decorum, but she could see the looks of puzzlement on their faces.

After bathing, she lay down on fresh sheets that smelled of some foreign spice. She closed her eyes; it would be the second night in a row she decided not to see the sorcerer. Fleetingly she wondered what he thought of this break in their meetings. Would he appear to ask what was keeping her?

She would find out soon enough.

***

9.

***

It was mid-morning when they reached Desrial. She looked up at the ornate gates of the city, adorned with long vines and flowers that could not grow in Agrabah. The city walls were similarly lined, each quarter a distinct theme that paid tribute to one of the four deities the Desrialites believed blessed their city. There was the goddess of the sea, the god of fresh water, the goddess of agriculture, and the god of trade. It was indeed blessed, one of the most affluent kingdoms in the Seven Deserts. It bordered the sea and a river that ran into it, and sat upon fertile land. Its favorable geographic location made it a major center of commerce.

She entered the gates with her entourage, guided by royal guards sent from the palace to receive her. She marveled at her surroundings, the wide, clean streets and opulent houses, the wealth of the average citizen far surpassing that of Agrabah's people. Remembering her recent flight around the city with Aladdin, she felt pity for her own subjects. But she reminded herself that one of the results she hoped this trip would bring was the increased prosperity of Agrabah. She could not help all the homeless and orphaned children in her city at the moment, but she was doing what she could to help them in the future.

The young sultan was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps leading up to his magnificent palace, which was at least one and a half times larger than her own. He smiled as she neared, his dark brown hair framing his tanned face in neat waves beneath a loosely set turban. His robes were blue and gold, the official colors of royalty in Desrial; the former represented the sea, and the latter the wealth of the kingdom. She smiled back, seeing that he had matured in appearance and was noticeably taller. His once boyish face was now a man's, his jawline more clearly defined, his short beard neatly cut in a thin line around his chin. But his deep brown eyes still sparkled with the mischief and love of fun that he had had as a child.

"Princess Jasmine, what an honor," he said as he helped her off her horse. She meant to bow to him, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "No no, none of that. We're old friends, no need for formalities."

"Glad to know this sultan business hasn't gotten to your head," she said with a grin. "It's good to see you too, Raeven."

He ordered his servants to take care of everyone who had accompanied her on her journey. Two guards did not leave with the others, following her as was their customary duty. She relieved them of that responsibility for the day; she had no need for protection here.

Raeven offered her his arm, and she took it quietly as he led her up the stairs. Before they reached the doors, she stopped to marvel at the fountain where clear, sunlit water streamed forth from intricately carved mermaid statues. It was the size of a small lake. She looked at her reflection, frowning at the dust and sweat on her face.

"You look beautiful, you have nothing to worry about," he said. "And didn't you always want to be the rugged adventuring type?"

"Still do," she said with a laugh. "But you never let me."

They walked through the main doors, their footsteps echoing in the vast hall of the throne room. The vaulted ceiling was covered in paintings of the seashore at sunrise and sunset, and the wide columns were decorated with winding patterns of water.

"I almost forgot what your home looked like," she remarked. "The jewel of the Seven Deserts, the envy of all."

"Stop with that, please. My eyes have grown tired of it," he said, leading her to a private room set aside for her to wash her face.

They then entered a side parlor where waterfalls ran down all four of the walls. They walked across a narrow bridge to the center of the room, elevated above a pool of water. A servant waited beside a table and two gilded chairs, bowing as they approached.

"I remember this room," she said. "We used to play on that ledge, trying to push each other off."

"I remember as well," he said in a jokingly sour tone. "Somehow you always managed to trip me first."

"You took chivalry too seriously," she replied, taking a sip of cool water from her glass. "But you never took me seriously enough."

"Forgive me for my past errors in judgment," he said as servants began bringing them the first several dishes of their lunch. He paused and looked into her eyes, seeming to examine her face. "But I was never wrong on the count that you are beautiful. You are the true jewel of the Seven Deserts, Jasmine. This kingdom pales in comparison to you."

"Stop with the flattery," she said, rolling her eyes. "Seems you haven't become less of a flirt after becoming sultan."

He winked. "Of course not."

Plates of steaming, mouth-watering food were brought to the table continuously for the next hour. They talked throughout the meal, reminiscing on their childhood days, chatting idly about recent events in both of their kingdoms, lamenting the pressures of governance, and touched on other subjects that had nothing to do with her purpose for coming here. Finally, as the first dessert dish arrived, there was a pause in the conversation.

His gaze changed as he looked into her face again. His eyes were serious and reserved. She altered her posture accordingly, both of them assuming the mantle of formal diplomacy like a second skin. The conversation from now on would no longer be so trivial.

"So," he began, "I have considered the proposal you outlined briefly in your letter."

She nodded, waiting for him to find words of the proper decorum.

"They are worthy requests; I admire the responsibility you have taken on as a future sovereign of your kingdom. It seems you have put much thought into this."

"Yes," she said, though it was only half the truth. She had only thought up the proposal a few days earlier. "I believe that much is to be gained for both our kingdoms if we increase trade. And diamonds would surely make a wonderful addition to your city gates, would they not?"

His smile was cordial but did not touch his eyes. "Indeed, our gates could always use more shiny trinkets to impress the passersby. But I am afraid that you have come a month too late, Princess. Desrial recently acquired a diamond mine in Staaris, where labor is cheaper than in any other kingdom within a week's travel time. There is no need for us to look for mines elsewhere."

Her hopes sank into her stomach, but she did not show it on her face. Her own smile was guardedly polite even at this setback.

"That is unfortunate for me to hear," she said slowly. "I had been confident that we would be able to reach some sort of favorable agreement. I was given the impression by your speedy reply to my letter that Desrial was interested in Agrabah's diamonds."

"Ah. My messengers are always quick, especially when delivering letters to those kingdoms with which Desrial has the closest ties. I wished only to answer you promptly."

"I am grateful for the friendship between our kingdoms. And because of our close rapport," she said, beginning to test the waters, "I hope that we might be able to reach some sort of agreement allowing Agrabah direct access to the sea. Perhaps I was thinking too narrowly when I considered what Desrial might want in exchange for such a privilege. If diamonds are not in your interest, then perhaps some other commodity? Silver? Medicinal herbs?"

"Hm. Agrabah does have much to offer," he said, seeming to turn her proposal over again in his head. Studying his eyes, however, she could tell it was just a show of politeness. He paused for several seconds before speaking again, his tone apologetic. "But there is nothing that Desrial needs at the moment. Our economy is strong, maritime trade has been increasing steadily each year, there has been no serious outbreak of disease…we are quite sufficient as it is."

"I see. Then I ask you as a friend, not a head of a state," she said, starting to drop the polished front of diplomacy. "Agrabah needs access to the sea more than ever now. As you said yourself, maritime trade has been on the rise. I fear that my kingdom will fall behind if it does not gain access to a port within the next year."

"I am sorry, Princess," he said with sadness. "I cannot fulfill your request."

"May I ask why?" she pressed. "What does Desrial have to lose if it grants Agrabah access to its port? A bit of taxes is all. Desrial's pockets are already filled with tribute from other kingdoms."

"A bit of taxes is quite an understatement. The gold itself is not an issue, of course. But I cannot play favorites so blatantly. What would other states think if I charged Agrabah next to nothing and the rest of them high fees for the same privilege?"

Her lips tightened as she watched his impassive face, still the mask of a clever politician.

"Desrial and Agrabah have always been on special terms. I doubt that others would find it strange or hard to accept," she said rather pointedly.

"Our fathers were good friends, yes. Our kingdoms have supported each other many a time in the past, through war and famine. But neither of us faces dire trouble at the moment. Agrabah may not have the upper hand in maritime trade, but to my knowledge its trade by land has been quite profitable, no?"

There it was again, an assertion that Agrabah was not in danger. No one knew that it indeed was, and she could not convince anyone of it.

"I am asking you to do this for me as a friend," she repeated, dropping the game of politics completely. "This is very important to me."

He paused, trying to scrutinize her motives. "I am sorry, but I cannot. Affairs of the state cannot be reduced to the level of private friendship, Jasmine. The first rule of trade is that transactions must be balanced. There are no free gifts."

"Why didn't you just write back to me and tell me that, then?" she said, trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt. It had been a complete waste to come here. "I made the journey here just so you could reject my proposal in person?"

"You requested an audience, and I granted you one," he said simply. "It would have been rude not to."

She hated politics. The formalities were a waste of time and resources. She could have spent the last two days doing other things for the sake of the kingdom instead of traipsing out here to admire the scenery.

It was clear to him that she was upset; she was never good at hiding these things, nor did she feel like concealing it anyway. He stood up from his seat before she could, perhaps to stop her from leaving right then and there.

"Let's put it off for a bit," he conceded. "We can discuss it later and perhaps reach some sort of compromise. But this has been a bad way to meet again after so long. There are many other things to catch up on, I'm sure. Will you take a walk with me?"

She almost said no because she had no desire to dawdle when she could be doing something productive. But she caught herself in time, banking on the possibility of a compromise later in the day.

They spent the afternoon walking through the expansive palace gardens, taking a carriage ride through the city, and strolling along the shore as the sun set. She relaxed minutely at the sight of the many wonders of his kingdom, but the thought of the upcoming negotiation was always there in her mind. She tried to think of other things that Agrabah could offer, anything that he might find attractive for Desrial. She could not help but antagonize him for his refusal to help her, as if it were a personal insult. Somehow she did not totally believe that he didn't mean it to be.

It was dusk by the time they returned to the palace. Dinner was waiting for them in the same room they had eaten in earlier in the day. The waterfalls on all four of the walls were tinted a dark rosy hue from the dim lights that shone behind them, giving the room a warm, intimate glow. The table and chairs had been removed, and the entire floor was padded with embroidered cushions. Platters of food were brought by servants and laid carefully on the floor between them.

"Do you usually dine in such luxury?" she asked.

"Only when I am in the company of a beautiful woman," he answered with a smile, breaking bread and handing a piece to her.

"You never stop, do you."

"My compliments flow forth as helplessly as moths drawn toward light," he said as if reciting a poem. "My words can never do you justice, Jasmine, but I cannot help speaking them."

She sighed in mock exasperation. "Moths usually burn and die once they actually reach the flame."

"That is the moth's weakness, not the flame's."

She did not pursue that train of thought any further, contenting herself with the exquisite food and drink given to them in abundance. When at last all the dishes were cleared away, she knew they would soon resume negotiations.

A servant girl poured tea for them as they settled once more into political decorum. She felt a wave of déjà vu pass through her as she drank from the cup of tea in her hand and straightened her posture. She blinked it away without dwelling on it; this was not a dream, and the man before her was not a sorcerer of dark magic.

"So," she began, "a compromise."

"Yes, I hope we can reach some sort of agreement. It pains me that I upset you today."

"Affairs of the state are separate from matters of private friendship," she echoed his words. "I understand that Agrabah must offer more in order to balance out my proposed transaction. I am willing to offer Desrial use of the silver refineries as well as the expertise of the kingdom's best herbalists. But as you have deemed that insufficient, I am willing to offer you a share in the oil recently discovered to the north of Agrabah as well."

"You are very gracious, Princess. But I am afraid Desrial is not in need of any of those things, still."

Her hand tensed on her cup as she brought it to her lips again. The tea was an exotic flavor, spicier and more pungent than what she had sampled in Agrabah. The hot liquid served to calm her nerves a little.

"Then I must ask you to name your price. What will you have from my kingdom?"

He seemed to pause and look for the right words. "What will I have? No head of state has ever offered me this open-ended option, I must say. Then again, you are not the average head of state. Young, passionate, inexperienced, and a woman."

She was not sure what to make of that remark; his thoughtful expression made it hard to tell if it was an insult or a mere observation.

"What will I have?" he repeated to himself, his eyes wandering across the waterfalls beside them. "What should I ask for when Desrial has everything?"

She bristled at his continued arrogance, both his frequent assertions of his kingdom's unmatched prosperity and his assumption that he could just keep her here at his leisure. There were important matters for her to deal with back home, and the longer she stayed here dancing around with words, the less she could help her own kingdom.

She took another sip of tea in an attempt to relieve a bit of her tension, and waited for him to answer his own question.

"You know, Jasmine," he said, unexpectedly switching back into casual conversation, "I really am sorry that I upset you earlier today."

"No need to apologize twice for an impersonal matter," she said.

"You forgive me then?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "Yes."

He smiled, looking relieved. "That's the first time you've ever accepted an apology from me."

"What are you talking about?"

"When we were younger, I always managed to make you mad for one reason or another. Whenever I said sorry, you would never forgive me."

"We were children. I was a spoiled brat. What does that have to do with anything?"

"There's something else I need you to forgive me for."

She couldn't read his expression, but the air in the room seemed to thicken. Maybe it was because she wasn't the one controlling the conversation; Mozenrath had observed correctly that lack of control usually made her tense.

"I never asked you to marry me."

The ensuing silence seemed to drown out the rush of the waterfalls.

"What," she said quietly, "are you getting at?"

"I was a fool," he began. "A fool out of prolonged grief over my father's passing, a fool full of pride because I became the youngest sultan in Desrial's history, and a fool to let those things keep me from asking you."

"I would have said no if you had asked," she said flatly.

"Would you have?" His deep brown eyes questioned her. "We were close, Jasmine. Close because of our fathers' friendship, and because it was their will that we eventually be together."

"I know my father willed it. But I would not have obeyed him; I still seldom do."

"Then we are alike. I too was always rebellious against my father, whether he was wrong or right. He always spoke of you as a rare jewel whose beauty in womanhood would rival that of the goddess of the sea. I did not listen because I was a young fool who wanted my own way, regardless of the wisdom and truth spoken to me. And only too late have I come to realize what I have missed."

He had moved closer somehow without her noticing, and suddenly the room was warmer than it should have been. She did not move, rooted in place by the intensity of his gaze. His words were oppressive, throwing her into confusion; she did not know how to feel, how to react to what he was saying.

On the one hand she felt betrayed. She had been relieved that he had not been among the myriad suitors who came knocking on Agrabah's gates. She had been able to continue viewing him as a friend and an equal, not a shallow, pompous fool who sought to win her kingdom and her beauty with his wealth and power. But now she could no longer count him among the few men who were purely her friends.

At the same time she shared his regret. It was absurd and terribly unnerving that she felt it.

She regretted that he hadn't asked her when he could have. Out of all the men she had known at that time, she had respected him the most. He was excessively chivalrous and tended to underestimate her, but he had always treated her with respect and care. She had trusted him as a friend. Perhaps if he had asked, she would have considered him after all.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked softly, searching his eyes, where his regret so clearly showed. She fought the urge to draw back as she saw the undercurrent of his gaze, the intensity of his feelings for her. Had he been hiding it this entire time?

"The moth's weakness…" he echoed, his face drawing closer to hers. He reached up with one hand to caress her cheek. She flinched away before he could touch her, but it was too late; he had seen her hesitate.

It was absurd. She suddenly felt like a cornered bird, unable to fly, unable to break her gaze away from the want so clearly written on his face. His hand brushed her skin then, and drew a trail of fire along her cheek down to her throat.

The first second of contact sent her senses reeling as she fought for control of herself, her mental faculties abruptly swirling into a useless puddle. She drew back feebly, trying to break free of the gentle hold his other hand now had on her waist. There was the muffled clink of a teacup overturning onto the cushioned floor as he moved forward, his face inches from hers. She tensed as he began drawing slow circles on the bare skin of her back, above the hem of her pants; he pulled her gently toward him, and she could not resist.

Somewhere in her muddled mind she knew this was wrong, that she loved another man, but somehow it was impossible to push him away. Her heart jumped in fear; the only time she had felt more powerless was when Jafar had cast a spell on her to force her to bow.

But she knew the feel of magic, and she knew that this was no spell. Which made it all the more terrifying.

"I can't…" she whispered as he leaned closer to kiss her, trying in vain to fight the slow burn of his touch. "I can't…I'm engaged…"

"I know. I know I'm too late," he said, his voice low and oppressively soft. "But just tonight…just for tonight…"

She had no time to take a breath before his lips met hers. She fell backwards at the suddenness of the kiss, but he held her tightly to him, laying her slowly down on her back as he moved over her.

She looked at him through half-lidded eyes as he kissed her, her lips parting at the insistence of his tongue. His hand was roving downward, past her waist and across her hip, and it took the last bit of her self-control to close her fingers around his wrist, stopping him.

"Raeven," she said, hating that she sounded so weak. "This is wrong…"

"This is the only thing I want," he said in a husky plea. "The only thing, Jasmine…I just want you. I will give you what you ask…the port…our compromise…"

_Compromise._

The word was a splash of cold water to her muddled senses, as if she had been dunked under one of the surrounding waterfalls.

Her grip on his wrist tightened, and she pushed him away with as much force as she could muster. She got to her feet, breaking all physical contact as she took several steps away from him.

"How dare you," she said with barely contained fury. "Public and private realms don't mix, hm? Isn't that what you said?"

"Jasmine…" He reached for her as if to calm her. She jerked away from his hand angrily.

"Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again," she snapped. "You were looking to compromise? Compromise my dignity, my binding commitment to marry a man I love?"

"You were more than willing to accept me," he said levelly. "Have you forgotten in the span of a few seconds?"

She was trembling with rage, disbelief, disgust, and many other emotions she could not sort out. But among them was self-loathing. What had gotten into her? How could she have fallen so easily?

She had fallen into the same trap she had tried to set for Mozenrath. Was she really any better than Raeven?

_Hypocrite, _her heart pounded with self-accusation. _So easily rendered unfaithful and powerless. _

"As a man who claims honor and chivalry, you should never have even thought to use me like that!" she spat, pushing aside her self-doubt for the moment. "You've changed, Raeven. I don't know who you are anymore."

"I wasn't looking to use you. My feelings are genuine, Jasmine, you saw it in my eyes—"

"Of course, all lust is genuine," she said viciously. "And its genuine purpose is to use another for selfish pleasure. I'm engaged, Raeven. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"You could ask yourself the same question," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "It seems the answer is no."

She could not remember leaving the palace, only that she ran from the room and somehow took a horse from one of the guards outside. The night was silent and cold as she rode out of the city into the desert alone. The sultan did not send anyone after her, nor had her own servants realized she was gone.

Only when she had ridden over a mile did she begin to slow down and think clearly again. Her mind was a dizzy swirl of thought and emotion and weariness, as if she had been drugged.

Perhaps she had been, she thought as the horse slowed to a walk. She would never have thought Raeven capable of drugging her, but she could not put anything past him now.

There was always a price to pay for power, Mozenrath had said. It seemed this time, she had had to pay the price for another.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Her horse tiredly approached the pool of water, stooping down to quench its thirst. She had pushed the animal too hard; it would be morning before they would be able to leave the oasis. She had been lucky to come across water in the first place, as she was not traveling on the path she had arrived by.

Her guards were surely looking for her by now. It shouldn't have been too difficult to track her for the first hour of her journey, but by the second hour she had ridden across trade routes that operated only at night, hoping the hoofprints of her horse would be covered by others.

She sat down in the sand, massaging the aching muscles in her legs. She filled a canteen with water and drank slowly since the water was rather cold. The desert at night was chilly, and she had left her outer robe in the palace. She was wearing only a two-piece outfit that exposed too much of her skin, which meant she would be in trouble in the morning when the sun rose.

She reminded herself to wear much more conservative clothing next time she went on a diplomatic trip. She would do anything to prevent a repeat of what had happened earlier that night. Her insides twisted in disgust once more at the memory of Raeven's hands on her, his lips hot against her skin. He had had no right. No right at all. And he had the audacity to blame her.

She rubbed her arms vigorously to try to keep warm. It would be a very cold night, and she would probably be sick by the time she got home. A spiteful smile touched her lips. It seemed she had regressed a few years to her petulant, rebellious days where the solution to her stress had been to run away from the palace. Here she was again, having fled with no plan or logic.

Would this be a secret between her and Raeven? Or would he try to slander her name, cover up his embarrassment at her sudden departure by accusing her of adultery? Her reputation would be done for if that happened. A woman's word, even that of a princess, counted much less than a man's. Yesterday she could not have imagined that Raeven would say or do anything to harm her, but she was now very afraid of his reaction to her flight.

Her gut twisted again in guilt. She had thought of her political reputation before her personal reputation in the eyes of those she loved. What would Aladdin think if he found out? It would almost certainly break his heart. She hoped that he would be more upset over the fact that someone had taken advantage of her than the fact that she had initially accepted the man's advances. Would he still be able to trust her as before? Suddenly standing on the receiving end of distrust made her uneasy.

She had placed the blame on Raeven for seducing her instead of thinking of how she had fallen. Mozenrath was right again in that she tilted the blame away from herself, trying to avoid things she didn't want to hear or think about.

Why had she let him take advantage of her? She should never have let him get that close. Why had she been so paralyzed?

Was she so weak that she could not have stopped him earlier? She should have hit him, pushed him away the moment he had drawn close to her. Perhaps an ugly side of her that she had always suppressed had risen up in that moment, desperate for contact with a man who was handsome and willing to offer her pleasure. There had to be something viscerally wrong with her. She had always been so strong; she could think of no reason why she had acted so weak.

Worse than her physical reaction to him were her thoughts at the time. She had actually felt regret, of all things. There was absolutely nothing for her to regret; she had a wonderful fiancé who loved her and treated her as an equal and would give his life for her. She had never wanted a pompous, chauvinistic prince. Did she think that Raeven could have given her what Aladdin did? What a fool she had been to even consider the thought.

The thought of her failures made her want to hide away from all the complications she had caused for herself. Failed at trade negotiations, at staying loyal to her fiancé, and now at returning to Agrabah without getting heatstroke the next morning. She had failed at maintaining control over herself, which was the first thing a ruler needed to be able to do.

She thought of Mozenrath and how he had kept his self-control despite her attempt to seduce him. It was puzzling to think that her greatest enemy had exercised such restraint seemingly for her sake instead of his. He had prevented her from making what would have been one of the greatest mistakes of her life, and proceeded to caution her about the cost of power. Their conversation had been for her wellbeing, hadn't it?

How strange, that the man who had the most power over her at the moment had chosen to exercise it for her protection. Or perhaps not. She did not fully know what he had intended.

She realized then that his motive might have been precisely what she wished she had done in the situation with Raeven. Mozenrath would never allow himself to fall under the power of another. Thus he had forsaken pleasure for the sake of preserving his own.

Regardless of his reasons, she felt she could trust the sorcerer more than she could her childhood friend. The Raeven she had once known was gone, replaced by a deceitful chauvinist pig who had betrayed her in one of the worst ways a man could treat a woman.

With effort she clamped down on her anger and bitterness and tried to rationalize it all. Next time, she would not be so foolish. She would not let personal friendships mix with politics. She would never ask another ruler to do a favor for her. And Aladdin would often have to go in her place to negotiate with other kingdoms, simply because it was still widely unheard of for a woman to sit at the bargaining table with men. She wondered if she should have sent him to Desrial instead of going herself. He might have been turned down just the same, but at least he wouldn't have been personally humiliated.

She tried to shake off the chill of the night air as she stood to tie the horse to a tree. Shivering, she lay down in the sand to rest. There was nothing she welcomed more than deep, dreamless sleep.

***

10.

***

A splash of icy water on her skin awakened her rudely. Before she could lift her head to see what had happened, cold hands seized her legs and pulled her toward the pool.

She screamed, but there was no one nearby, only a horse that immediately panicked at the sound. Whinnying in fear, it kicked its legs high in the air and strained to break free from its tether. Arms flailing, she clawed the ground for a handhold, but felt only sand run through her fingers.

In seconds her torso was half-submerged in freezing water, and she had time for one more breath before she sank under. Her skin went instantly numb from the extreme cold, and her lungs involuntarily released the precious air she had just taken in.

She kicked her legs as hard as she could, and to her surprise she was able to break free. But before she could propel herself toward the surface, she was dragged down again, and her alarm shot up as she felt more than two hands restraining her this time.

She opened her mouth to scream at the realization that they were not hands, but tentacles. Water rushed into her nose and mouth, suffocating her further. She reached for her throat instinctively, but her arms were quickly bound by curling tentacles, suction cups attaching themselves to her skin.

"Relax, sweets."

That voice—it took her one second to recognize it. Suddenly she could breathe in the water, and her limbs were no longer growing rigid in the cold.

"Armand, you relax too, don't want to suffocate the poor girl."

The octopus' hold loosened, allowing her more freedom of movement. Coughing, she peered through the darkness of the water and saw the familiar outline of a mermaid.

With a wave of her hand, the red-haired elemental illuminated the water around them in a soft yellow glow. Jasmine narrowed her eyes at her self-satisfied smile.

"Imagine this: the princess of Agrabah wandering alone in the middle of nowhere. No Aladdin. No jinni or animal sidekicks," she mused, her face a mask of wonderment. She looked at Armand and continued before Jasmine could speak. "Maybe she doesn't want them to know where she's been."

"Let me go." It was a futile command. Still, Jasmine tilted her chin up in defiance.

"We haven't seen each other in ages, Princess. Can't you stick around a bit so we can catch up? You know I love hearing about what goes on among you land-dwellers."

"I have no time to play around in the water, Saleen," she said curtly, trying to yank her arms out of the octopus' grasp.

"When you're in my realm, I decide how long you have to play," Saleen responded airily. "Of course, I'll make it worth your while to stay. I treat my guests well, as you may remember. Armand, you will have to do something about the princess' hair. It seems she slept in the sand without wrapping it first."

The fastidious octopus immediately released Jasmine and busied itself with grooming her hair. Jasmine folded her arms and ignored it, focusing all of her attention on the water elemental floating before her. She could not fight the mermaid in her own territory. She had no magic and low mobility in the water. Her mind was racing to think of a way out of this predicament, but she came up with nothing.

"Why are you bothering with me now?" Jasmine asked. "Aladdin's not here. There's no point for you to keep me here."

"It intrigues me that you're in such a hurry to go back," Saleen said thoughtfully. "I am by nature a curious being. Care to tell me why you're in such a rush?"

"I have to run my kingdom. You know, what rulers are supposed to do," she said sarcastically.

"Don't be fresh, Princess," the mermaid said. Her pout quickly slid into a sly smile. "But I do believe there is another reason you are here and in such a hurry. Need to go back to your man? Or perhaps run away from another man?"

Jasmine froze. She glared at the triumphant expression on the elemental's delicate-featured face. "None of your business."

"Oh please, don't clam up on me." Saleen laughed at her own pun. "I'm a curious woman as I said, and I couldn't help but notice you were in Desrial. I am their revered goddess of the sea, after all."

Jasmine felt even sicker.

"The Desrialites have their deities a bit mixed up, you know. Four city walls, gotta have four faces of divinity, right? Well, I'm actually goddess of the fresh water around here too. Kicked out the god who used to be in charge of it a while ago. I really should tell Raeven to update the religious practices of his city."

"Saleen, just let me go—"

"I really should talk to Raeven about something else too," Saleen cut her off forcefully. Her gaze changed from pleasant to poisonous in a second. "Like his special liaison with a certain princess of Agrabah."

The pocket of silence that followed made even Armand pause.

"He's a pretty boy, isn't he? I heard you were friends as kids. What a reunion that must have been, then," she said with a tinge of malice. "It was interesting to watch that little show in the waterfall room. In case you didn't know, I have access to all the water in the city. I keep the basic waterworks running, sometimes cause a few convenient shipwrecks, and Raeven gives me access to virtually everything. Without me, he's nothing."

She grinned conspiratorially at Jasmine. "I made him a man in more than one way, if you know my meaning."

She had nothing to say in response to that. So she just stood still, trying not to let what she felt show on her face.

"So, I suppose you understand how it felt for me to see some desert princess traipse into my territory and capture the heart of my man. I'll of course deal with him later. But it was just too easy to snag you at this little oasis. Having land-dwellers at my mercy is always fun."

"You can have him. I want nothing to do with his disgusting hide," Jasmine said vehemently. She swatted away a tentacle that was trying to braid her hair.

"I wasn't aware that he was yours to offer, Princess," Saleen said with barely concealed contempt. "He is mine, as is your life at this moment."

"We can just forget about this. He wanted me but I rejected him. There's nothing more to it."

"You certainly let him have more than a little taste of you before you decided to reject him," Saleen commented. "Lustful little thing, aren't we? Is the handsome street rat not sating your needs?"

"Leave Aladdin out of this. I was put in an unexpected situation and I didn't know how to react." It stung her to have to admit her failure, but if it could appease the elemental enough, perhaps she would let her go.

"It just so happens that I don't want to leave Aladdin out of this," Saleen said smoothly. "In fact I'd like to show him the truth of what his dear princess is really like."

With another wave of her hand, an image of Aladdin sitting by the fountain in the palace garden appeared beside them. He seemed lost in thought, staring at the still water while Carpet flew in meandering circles around him. It was apparent that he was stressed over the responsibilities Jasmine had given him, and was still awake at this hour thinking about them.

"I think he deserves to know, don't you?" the mermaid said sweetly. "It isn't fair to keep secrets from someone you love."

"Saleen. Don't," she pleaded.

"Maybe if you had been nice and polite from the beginning, I would have considered it. But it's too late now," she said with a nasty laugh. "This should be exquisitely fun."

She raised a neatly manicured hand, and another image appeared beside the one of Aladdin. It was a playback of what had transpired between her and Raeven, beginning with his forceful kiss. She tore her gaze away from the disgraceful sight.

"Please. Please don't!"

The mermaid tilted her head to the side, seeming to consider. "Hmm, the ever proud Princess of Agrabah stoops as low as to beg. Should I fall for the bait? Nah."

Jasmine watched helplessly as the water in the palace fountain swirled to form an image. Aladdin had looked away for a moment, but he was about to turn around and see it—

She made a split-second decision, a choice she would never have dreamed of if she were under any other circumstances.

"Mozenrath!"

***

10.

A form clad in dark blue and black materialized before her, a curious smile on his pale face. "Well, Princess, it's been a while—"

She cut him off urgently. "Help m—"

***

She snapped awake at the painful sting of a palm against her face.

"Now this is interesting," Saleen mused. "Calling yet another man's name before you faint? You have a secret harem that you're not telling Aladdin about?"

She touched her cheek gingerly and glared at the water elemental. She could only hope that Mozenrath would somehow show up to get her out of this mess. Or maybe he'd just find it entertaining to observe from his Citadel.

"I see you've gotten yourself into quite a predicament, Princess."

The mermaid turned sharply at the sound of a stranger's voice in her territory. "Who's there?"

The soft yellow glow that surrounded them as well as the twin images Saleen had conjured were suddenly snuffed out, and they found themselves in complete darkness. The mermaid snarled in surprise and indignation.

"Who are you? Show your face!"

There was a sound akin to that of a torch being lit, and the water began to glow an eerie blue. Jasmine saw the nervousness on the mermaid's face, her skin looking paler than usual in the strange shade of light.

"Ah. A water elemental. With rather elementary magic, I might add."

The sorcerer's dismissal of Saleen's powers made her flare up suddenly.

"I don't like strangers in my water insulting me, so if you know what's good for you…"

Mozenrath appeared casually beside the princess in a swirl of what looked like dark ink, confusing Armand and causing the octopus to back away from Jasmine.

"Nice pet," he commented dryly.

Saleen's expression changed slowly as she took in his appearance, her eyes crawling his form before settling on his face. Her angry sneer melted into a calculating, winsome smile, and she swam closer to him with slow movements of her tail, fluttering her eyelashes as she drew near.

"Yes, isn't it," she said in a sultry tone. "And what might your name be, stranger?"

Jasmine stayed silent, observing the first meeting between two enemies of Agrabah. She found herself holding her breath as Saleen placed a delicate hand on Mozenrath's chest, her fingers dancing up to stroke his jawline.

"Someone as handsome as you should be given time for a proper introduction. I have plenty of time tonight. My name's Saleen, goddess of the sea."

Jasmine felt an absurd wave of jealousy hit her at the sight of Saleen's shameless flirtation. In the next moment she brushed it out of her mind, tensing up for what would inevitably happen. Mozenrath's lips curved into a smile, but the elemental appeared completely oblivious to the dispassionate cruelty there that Jasmine knew all too well.

He reached up to take hold of Saleen's hand as it ventured toward his face.

"My name is Mozenrath," he said simply. "And I am out of your league."

Saleen uttered a rather unattractive shriek as he sent a current of power through her with the gauntlet. She immediately released him and floated backwards, nursing her injured hand.

Jasmine turned to Mozenrath; it seemed so far that she had made the right decision. He returned her look of urgency with the same dispassionate expression. "A pleasure to see you in person, Princess. But you have a bit of explaining to do; I hate having to leave the Citadel at this hour."

"Just get me out of here," she hissed, batting away an octopus tentacle as Armand tried to restrain her once again.

He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by a very angry-looking mermaid.

"You must be another one of the princess' boytoys," she said nastily. "Didn't realize she had a sorcerer at her beck and call."

"And you've only got a cephalopod. How quaint," he said dryly. His voice grew serious. "It is painfully obvious that you are unaware of who I am. I am the Lord of the Black Sand, and I bend to no one's will."

"I have no interest in sandy places, whatever color they may be," she sniffed, her hands on her hips. "And you can bet I've got more than an octopus under my command. I've got the entire sea."

Jasmine wasn't sure whether to believe her assertion of power, but Mozenrath obviously didn't. His laugh was cold and humorless. "Please. I've turned elementals like you into Mamluks before."

The remark seemed to pass over the mermaid's head; she probably had no idea what Mamluks were. She was picking a fight without any knowledge of her enemy. Mozenrath, on the other hand, seemed to have a solid grasp of the situation. Or was he always this good at bluffing?

"I'd like to see you try," the elemental snapped, and the water around them began to swirl. She moved back gracefully with a taunting grin in Jasmine's direction.

A strong current suddenly swept her off balance, and she cried out as she found herself trapped in a rapidly growing vortex, whirled about again and again so fast she could hardly see her surroundings. She kicked hard and tried to propel herself out of it, but her muscles were too weak and her mind was losing coherence from the dizziness.

Then she was buffeted in the opposite direction, her vision blurring as her brain struggled to adjust to the vertigo. She caught sight of Mozenrath, his gloved hand commanding the water; he had produced a cyclone of his own, but it flowed in the opposite direction of Saleen's. The currents canceled each other out and Jasmine broke free at last. Disoriented, she floated back to his side.

"Interesting. A land wizard with the power to control water," Saleen mused. "Well, how about this?"

She retreated into the darkness as the water began to churn again. Jasmine braced herself but found that there was no cyclone this time. Patches of water were swirling and condensing into solid shapes—gray and white, sleek, and carnivorous. Half a dozen sharks began circling them, baring rows of razor sharp teeth. Jasmine drew back, keeping close to Mozenrath. She turned to ask him what he would do but found he was already chanting a spell.

The first of the sharks dove toward them suddenly, and she screamed as it lunged directly for her. A second before its teeth would have taken off her arm, it hit an invisible barrier and was forced back, its skin scored with lash marks. The other sharks rushed them only to be driven back as well. The two that hit the sharp-edged barrier hardest were bleeding from dozens of lacerations. The others immediately turned on them and began a grisly spectacle of feeding on the wounded. Jasmine put a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.

Mozenrath watched with detached curiosity. "Fascinating beasts. Dumber than Mamluks, though."

He raised his hand toward the concentrated cluster of sleek gray bodies and blasted them to pieces, sending chunks of torn flesh scattering in all directions. Jasmine shielded her eyes from the gruesome sight.

Red clouds billowed toward them, but stopped at the edge of the invisible net Mozenrath had cast around them. He turned toward her with a cold smile. "Can't let blood get on the princess."

Saleen's angry voice echoed all around them. "You killed my beautiful creatures! You're going to pay for that!"

"Saleen, you can't win," Jasmine called, regaining her composure. "Just let us go."

Mozenrath looked at her with amusement. "Intriguing that you trust me to win. What happened to believing that enemies would only bring you harm?"

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get me out of here," she replied in a huff.

He didn't have time to respond before Saleen appeared beside them, her arms outstretched as she finished performing a spell. They found themselves encased in a bubble. The surface swelled and curved with the currents of the water around them, distorting Saleen's triumphant smile into a crazed grin.

"Try to get out of this one, sorcerer. Before the water pressure crushes you," she said with a nasty laugh.

Mozenrath reached to the side, canceling his own barrier spell, and touched the surface of the bubble. It was solid and rubbery; his hand could not go through no matter how far he tried to stretch the material. Jasmine suddenly felt the increased weight of the water around her and felt her knees buckle. It was growing harder to breathe.

"The bubble lets nothing escape. It only lets water enter, until it crushes the life out of whatever unfortunate souls may be trapped inside!" Saleen cackled. She returned Jasmine's hateful glare with a saccharine smile. "Don't worry, Princess. I'll tell Aladdin that you died in peace…in the arms of another man!"

Jasmine pounded on the surface of the trap in futile rage as Saleen disappeared into the darkness once more, content to leave them to their doom.

"Don't waste your energy!" Mozenrath snapped. He was struggling to keep on his feet as well. "We have to push the walls in opposite directions in order to get out. The elasticity of this bubble is limited. If we stretch it enough, it will break."

He grabbed her roughly by the arm, his face surprisingly calm despite the situation.

"Here," he touched her hand to his gauntlet. She felt a jolt as raw power entered her arm and cried out in pain. He had told her that her body was not made to use magic, and she felt the truth of that statement now. He shook her by the shoulders to clear her senses. "No time to be delicate. Take that energy and shove it against your side of the bubble as hard as you can. On my count."

He turned briskly to his side of the prison and drew on his power. His gauntlet began to glow a bright blue. She looked down at her throbbing hand, imbued with magic she was not meant to wield.

"Ready," he ordered curtly. "One, two, three!"

Jasmine slammed her fist into the barrier with all her might. She cried out again as the power left her hand in an electrifying current, flowing into the transparent wall of the bubble and splintering into blue and black bolts that shot along its surface in all directions. She was breathing hard; the pressure inside the trap was still growing.

"The magic weakens the barrier," he said urgently. "Keep pushing with your body weight to break it!"

She threw her shoulder against the bubble and pushed, her skin tingling and burning with the feel of a thousand little bolts of power from the surface of the barrier. She could feel it stretching thinner, almost taste the water outside of it…

Together they stretched the bubble one more inch and heard a loud snap as it broke, throwing them forward into free water. The pressure on her lungs lightened, and she gratefully took in a full breath.

Mozenrath fixed her with a hard look. "Let those skin burns be a reminder never to ask me—"

He whirled around suddenly and shot a blast of power into water too dark for her to see. He was rewarded with a shrill scream from the water elemental. A cord of glowing energy appeared in his hand, stretching off into the darkness. He gave it a sharp tug, and the disgruntled mermaid tumbled toward Jasmine, stirring up the sand as she hit the floor of the pool.

"I hate being interrupted," he said brusquely. "Especially by weak elementals who think I can't see them weaving spells."

Saleen lashed out at his legs with her tail, but he was too quick for her. With another blast of power he immobilized her from the waist down. Her tail lay limply in the sand, and she struggled to sit upright by the strength of her arms alone.

"I hate strangers entering my water to meddle with my prisoners!" she said, enraged. She turned her venomous glare toward Jasmine. "You never play fair, do you? Always have to have a loyal defender come to your rescue."

Before Jasmine could say anything, Mozenrath spoke crossly. "I believe I'm the only one with ranting privileges here. Called out of my Citadel in the middle of the night only to be caught in a catfight between a spoiled, magicless princess and a tasteless, weak elemental."

He sent another jolt of power through the mermaid's now crippled body. She cried out in pain, thrashing in the sand as blue and black energy shot through her system.

"Mozenrath, stop! That's enough!" Jasmine snapped.

He ignored her as he shot another blast at the octopus that was diving toward them, trying to save its mistress.

It reeled back from the blow, squirting ink wildly. To Jasmine's horror, two of its tentacles had been blown off and were bleeding steadily in the water.

"Stop!" she cried, throwing herself on his arm before he could fire again. He looked at her with disdain and pushed her away. But he did not use his power again as he gave a final warning to the half-conscious mermaid.

"As I said, I'm out of your league," he said coldly. "In a second I'll be out of your water, and you better thank the gods that I have no wish to return."

He gathered the side of his cape in one hand and drew his arm in an arc, transporting them both onto dry land.

She fell clumsily on her side, the cold night air chilling her skin immediately. Shivering, she got to her feet, brushing wet sand off her skin and trying to wring out the baggy fabric of her pants.

"I won't ask what business you had with that elemental. Or why you're even out here in the middle of nowhere by yourself. It seems you're better than I am at making enemies in random places."

She noticed that he was dry; he undoubtedly knew some spell that had dried his clothing instantly upon leaving the water. She didn't ask him to cast the same spell on her, though she desperately needed it. By the time she got back to Agrabah, she would almost certainly be ill.

"Thank you," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and a slow smile spread across his face. "The princess, thanking me? And apologizing? Now this is rich."

"You just saved my life. Of course I have to thank you," she snapped, rubbing the cold skin on her arms.

"And now she's back to normal," he commented. She scowled. It was obvious that she was freezing, and he wasn't doing a thing to help. She supposed she couldn't depend on him for small kindnesses, only big ones…like saving her life.

"It has not yet been thirty days," he said curtly. His annoyance was obvious. "Take care not to die before then. I hate to see my opponents bow out of the ring without my consent."

The little gratitude she had left evaporated. She supposed she shouldn't have expected any selfless actions from him.

"I'll try not to die before you tell me to, Master," she said mockingly.

Ignoring her sarcasm, he produced a small bottle in his gauntleted hand and offered it to her. She eyed it warily.

"Take this," he said. "It'll get rid of the lingering effects of the potion you drank."

"Potion?"

His gaze changed minutely as he seemed to realize something. "I smelled it on you the moment I arrived. It must have been a strong dosage for its scent to have remained on you in the water."

She could not break her gaze from his face, trying to figure out what he was thinking, what he wasn't saying about the potion. She noticed the dark circles under his eyes for the first time; he actually looked exhausted. She wondered just how much energy he had spent during the fight with Saleen. Her eyes trailed downward to his lips then, inexplicably drawn all of a sudden to the way he was looking at her. She blinked, confused.

"Drink this," he said more firmly. "It'll clear your head."

She flushed, embarrassed that he had noticed her wandering gaze. "What potion are you talking about?"

"There is an aphrodisiac in your system," he said simply. "One of the stronger brews, I believe, native to Desrial."

He remained impassive to the shock on her face and the tremors in her shoulders. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as she reached forward to take the bottle, her hand shaking.

He opened his palm and levitated the bottle over to her so she did not have to touch him. She was grateful for the gesture. He must have known that she could not stand to touch anyone at the moment.

She uncorked the bottle and drank it in one gulp, letting the bitter liquid swirl down her throat to scour her system of poison. The empty bottle disappeared from her hand as she finished, and she slumped heavily down in the sand, burying her face in her arms.

She had been drugged after all. So it wasn't her fault that she had responded to Raeven's advances. Was it? How much were her own instincts to blame?

Was the brief moment of jealousy in the water a product of the potion as well? And when she had stared at him just a minute ago—what had caused that?

The weight of uncertainty had only grown heavier with this new knowledge. She kept herself from breaking down by the sheer force of her will, knowing that Mozenrath was still watching her in silence.

"Another firsthand lesson, Princess," he said without malice. "Never allow another to have power over you."

She did not raise her head as he left in a small whoosh of air. Frozen and alone on the cold sand, she finally let the tears flow.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

She stopped at a small village before arriving in Agrabah to bathe and obtain new clothes to cover her injured skin. Her messy hair and shoddy appearance made it easy enough to conceal her identity from the residents of the town. After cleaning up, she covered her face with a veil and rode on toward home. Her skin felt hotter than the sun, but she was shivering beneath her new cloak; it hadn't taken long for her to get sick. She would try to pass it off as a result of overwork when Aladdin asked, but she still had to figure out how to explain the absence of her entourage.

She took a back route into the city that was seldom used. The guards at the border were puzzled at her unexpected appearance but did not question her. Fortunately, she didn't see Aladdin before she arrived at the palace.

She got down to business right away, checking the meeting rooms to find her advisors. She was surprised to find Aladdin dozing in one of the rooms, his face smeared with ink from the blueprints spread across the table. With a fond smile she began to close the door, but he woke up at the slightest creak of the hinges.

"Hey," he said groggily. "Did you just get back?"

"Yeah." She stifled a laugh at the sight of the ink patterns on his cheek. "You've been busy, I guess."

"Busy can't begin to describe it," he said wearily. "How do you do it, Jasmine? Take care of all this governance stuff, and still manage to look so beautiful every day?"

"I only started last week," she replied. She hesitated before deciding to sit down beside him. It wasn't as awkward as she thought it would be. As long as she kept her mind off what had happened, the conversation would be fine. "I'll start looking ugly pretty soon, though."

"I'm going to have to marry an ugly woman?" he said, frowning. "Oh well, I always close my eyes when I kiss you anyway."

Despite his tired state, he was still quick enough to avoid her slap. He laughed and caught her chin in his hand, drawing her in for a kiss. She tensed instinctively, and he must have sensed it right before their lips met. He gave her a curious look.

"Something wrong?"

She inwardly berated herself for freezing up, even for a second.

"Bad breath," she said randomly. "Not you. Me. I've been traveling since morning without much to eat."

"Great, my future wife has bad breath issues too," he sighed. "What a miserable sultan I'm going to be."

"So what have you been doing?" she asked, perhaps too quickly. "You must have gotten a lot done, given how tired you are."

"Yeah, a lot has been done." She could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "This is what the construction teams have started working on so far."

He showed her the blueprints on the table, copies of what they had drawn out the day before she had left for Desrial. They had been heavily marked with Aladdin's messy handwriting. The nobles scorned him for his low level of literacy, but she was still amazed that he had taught himself that much without ever entering a classroom.

But she grew more disappointed as he finished explaining the progress—or lack thereof—that he had managed while she was gone. At the look on her face, he was immediately defensive.

"Come on Jasmine, I'm new at this. I made some mistakes, but it's okay. We can have Genie fix them and make up for lost time."

"It's okay that you made mistakes, Aladdin, I'm not blaming you," she said evenly, trying to hide her disappointment. She realized that her expectations for him were too high. Not everything came to him as easily as stealing food in the marketplace or thwarting magical enemies. "But I said before that having Genie help us is not the point. We can't count on him all the time. We have to depend on ourselves and also involve as many of our citizens as we can. It's time for Agrabah's people to work together in defending the city, not just depend on a small band of heroes to do it for them."

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'll fix up what I did wrong and get the project back on schedule," he said. He didn't like to be taken lightly, and her quick disapproval of him must have felt like a dismissal. It was his turn to change the topic. "How was Desrial?"

She didn't tense this time. Her lie was prepared and rehearsed. "It was fine. A waste of time, though; the sultan didn't accept the proposal."

"He turned it down after inviting you to his city? That was pretty rude."

"Politics as usual. Desrial makes it no secret that it thinks it's superior to every other kingdom," she said, trying to keep the malice out of her voice. She tugged her cloak tighter around herself.

"I guess we'll have to think of some other way to get a port."

She noticed he was watching her closely, observing her hand that still gripped her cloak. He touched her forehead with his palm. "Did you catch something?"

"Just a little cold," she said, removing his hand gently. "I'm not used to traveling."

"You mean traveling on a horse and not a magic carpet," he quipped, but the concern did not fade from his eyes. "You actually look more tired than I am, Jasmine. Maybe you should call for one of the healers."

"No, I'm fine," she said firmly. "I just need a little rest, that's all."

"You should go rest right now," he insisted. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room."

He took hold of her arm to help her up, and she winced as her skin stung. He drew back in surprise and suspicion.

"It's nothing," she said quickly. She couldn't think of a random excuse this time. "Just feeling a bit weak."

"Did you hurt yourself?" he pressed. She found it strange that he was being so persistent. He usually didn't act too protective because he knew she hated being coddled.

"I'm fine. Let's just go to my room."

But she stumbled on a cushion when she tried to stand, and the cloak slipped from one shoulder as she regained her balance. She quickly drew it over herself again, but it was too late. Aladdin stopped her hand with his own, and uncovered the burns and circular tentacle marks on her skin.

"What happened?" he said in a hardened tone. The look in his eyes said she couldn't brush off the question this time. But she couldn't well answer either, so she said nothing, breaking her gaze away with a terrible sense of dread.

"What the hell happened, Jasmine?" Aladdin said, his voice rising roughly. She hesitantly met his eyes again only to recoil at the mounting fury she saw in them. "Did he hurt you?"

The frozen look on her face gave her away immediately. He knew. He must have seen it in the fountain after all. But why hadn't he said anything until now?

"What did he do to you?" he went on. "How much…how far did he…"

He broke off painfully and took her by the shoulders as gently as he could manage in his anger. "Say something, Jasmine!"

"You saw," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

"I saw a glimpse of something I thought was just an illusion!" he snapped, forcing her chin up so she had to look at him. "I thought my mind was playing tricks on me because I hadn't slept for a day! But it was real, wasn't it? Tell me what happened!"

"Raeven didn't want anything in exchange for the port," she said at last, each word wrenching itself out of her throat. "Except me."

"So he forced himself on you?" Aladdin said incredulously. The question was laced with both anger and fear. Anger at the thought that someone might have hurt her, but fear that it had actually not been against her will.

It hurt too much to lie, to add yet another dark secret to the growing rift between them. So she forced herself to tell the truth, though it was like bile in her throat.

"He slipped a drug into my drink, Aladdin," she said brokenly, her heart pounding under his unrelenting stare. "I…I wasn't myself. I'm sorry! I stopped him before…before it could get worse…I'm sorry!"

His grip tightened on her shoulders as he fought with his emotions. She bit her lip as he mastered his anger slowly, releasing her and sitting down on the floor once more. She followed suit, afraid to speak again.

"It's not your fault, then, only his, that worthless piece of trash." His voice was dangerously low. "I was afraid you…no, I know you wouldn't have. I trust you, Jasmine. I still do."

She breathed a bit easier at that assertion. He took her hand in his. "But you fought him off? Is that how you were injured?"

"Yes." She felt a dull prick inside as she returned helplessly to her pile of lies. "I left the kingdom right after that."

He frowned and drew her cloak further down her arm to see the extent of her wounds. "He burned you? But what are these round marks? There aren't any weapons shaped like this."

Before she could answer, his mind turned to something else. "How did I see that in the water? I was just sitting by the fountain, and as far as I know it's just an ordinary fountain. There was magic involved, there had to have been."

He fixed her with an unwavering gaze that said he knew she was hiding something.

"What else happened?" he asked simply.

She took a breath before cutting free another secret. "I had a run-in with Saleen."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not having expected that as an answer.

"As I was on my way back to Agrabah, I stopped at an oasis, and she dragged me into the water," Jasmine began. "She apparently controls all the water in Desrial, so she saw me and R—she saw what happened. To rub it in, she planned to show you. So that's how the image appeared to you in the fountain."

"How did you escape?"

"She let me go," she lied yet again. At his look of doubt, she continued quickly. "Because the damage had been done. She didn't need to keep me anymore. It'd be worse for me to return here and have you despise me."

His eyes softened at her words. He seemed to realize how frighteningly angry he had appeared to her and looked sorry immediately. "Jasmine, I don't despise you. Don't ever think that."

He drew her into a tight embrace, taking care not to hurt her burned arm. She buried her face in his shoulder, relieved that he wasn't angry with her. He spoke into her hair, his voice trembling. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I wish I could have been there to stop him…I should have gone to Desrial instead of staying here! I should have gone and put that arrogant bastard in his place."

He tensed in her arms, and she looked up at his face. His jaw was set in determination. "I'm going to go there right now."

"No!" she said immediately, wrapping her arms more tightly around him. "You can't! Aladdin, this isn't the time for heroics. This is politics. If you go, you'll only drag everything out into the open! Both of our kingdoms will find out about what happened, and it'll only go downhill from there."

He clenched his jaw in frustration. "I won't just sit here after someone assaults my fiancé. It's not right. I have to go set things straight."

"Did you hear any part of what I just said? Don't be a fool, Aladdin. Thank you for wanting to defend my honor. But you can't go to Desrial. You can't mention it to anyone. We have to just forget about it. I promise that it'll never happen again."

"That's not a promise that you can make, Jasmine," he said, and she could see how much his heart was splintered over this. "You're beautiful. You might face this situation again."

"I won't ever be that careless again," she asserted. "I'll make sure the next sultan who tries something loses his crown jewels before he can touch me."

Aladdin winced at the thought, and she saw he was starting to let go of his impulsive desire to beat the daylights out of Raeven.

"I hate that I can't do anything. I wish I could do something to help you."

"You can," she said softly. She took her face in his hands. "Just trust me."

"I do," he said, placing his hands over hers. "You've always trusted me, and I gave you far less reason for it."

His words lanced at her conscience as they clearly weren't true under the current circumstances. She smiled as genuinely as she could and drew him toward her for a kiss. He returned it with hesitation, not knowing how she felt about it after having been assaulted by another man. But she wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting to assure him that it was alright. It was all he needed to pull her closer, and she almost crumbled as she realized that at the base of it, she was trying to reassure herself first.

He gave her a tentative smile when they parted, and she shoved away her self-loathing for the moment just so she could smile back.

"Your breath isn't that bad."

She swatted his arm. "You were going to walk me to my room?"

"Oh, right, Your Highness," he said obsequiously, getting to his feet and helping her up. As they walked down the corridor toward her room, he spoke again in seriousness. "We've got more work to do once you get enough rest. Thanks for being patient with me. And…let me know if you want to talk about anything, okay? I know this won't be easy to forget."

"I'll be fine," she said as they reached the door. He glanced at her bed behind her before focusing his gaze on her again. It was clear he wanted to stay beside her, but by law it was not yet time for them to share that level of intimacy. She kissed him again and watched him go.

She settled under the covers and sank into sleep, not allowing herself time to fall back into regret and guilt. It would do nothing.

***

11.

***

She awakened the next morning having slept well over twelve hours. Both her body and mind had desperately needed rest, and she woke up refreshed, ready to begin her tasks with more energy than before. She and Aladdin worked together throughout the morning, discussing the progress of each of their projects.

She forced herself not to dwell on what had happened in Desrial, but spent whatever free time she had trying to analyze the sorcerer's actions at the oasis.

He had come to save her immediately after she had called for him. And the apparent reason was that he didn't want someone else to defeat her before the thirty-day game was over. Was that all, though? She had a hard time believing it was so simple, especially after his unexpected offer of the antidote. Again, he could have capitalized on her weakness and taken advantage of her, and again he had chosen not to. He had done the opposite instead by helping her.

Was he her enemy or not? Perhaps he wanted her to prove her wrong about him just for the sake of proving her wrong.

More than once, he had said that her perception of him was false or too simplistic. It seemed now that her stereotypical view of an enemy was wrong. She had believed he would always seek to do her harm, but that was obviously not the case. However, he could just be trying to throw her off guard so she would be unable to predict his future plots.

He was truly a mystery. He was attracted to her, but made no advances. He was an enemy, yet in effect he was helping her strengthen her kingdom with his challenge. He belittled her as stubborn and spoiled, yet took the time to impart wisdom to her.

In contrast, Aladdin was so easy for her to understand. A simple, good-hearted man with no complications. As they worked together to strengthen the kingdom, she realized she was often able to predict what he would say or do next. She had thought him so full of surprises when he had first won her affection. His life had seemed to be a rush of adventure, freedom, and the love of a challenge—everything she wanted but had never been allowed to have. Now, however, she realized he was missing qualities that the kingdom needed in a sultan, which were more important than her own desires for him as her beloved.

If only she could map out Mozenrath's character and motives as easily as she could read Aladdin's.

That night she decided to tackle the problem from a different angle. It wouldn't help to keep puzzling over the same information from the past week and a half. Adding that information to the several encounters she had had with Mozenrath in the past would not help much either. He had only shown himself to be a power-hungry villain back then, but obviously there was more depth to him. She had to know who he was outside of his status as her enemy, for enemies were defined rather narrowly in relation to oneself. She had to know him as an individual.

Where to start then?

It was late afternoon when she called for the old historian who had given her encouragement from the beginning of her endeavors in governance. They sat in one of the smallest meeting rooms, and Jasmine made sure there was no one in the hallways who could overhear their conversation.

"Councilor Thanon. I ask your forgiveness for interrupting your work. But I need help once again concerning magical matters."

"It is my honor to serve you, Your Highness. I am the one who must apologize if my knowledge is too inadequate to give you what you seek."

"I trust that your knowledge is vast beyond my ability to measure. Do not worry about disappointing me," she said graciously. She got straight to the point then. "I would like to ask what you know about dark magic."

The old man stroked his gray-white beard in thoughtful solemnity. "Dark magic…what exactly do you wish to know about it, Your Highness?"

"Everything. I don't know much except that it's forbidden and it's associated with evil spirits."

"That is correct. Magic in general must be drawn from the spiritual realm, whether from one's own soul or from otherworldly powers. The patron spirits of dark magic are of the underworld, demonic forces that lend their power to mortals willing to treat with them. And the act of performing dark magic almost always involves harming others for the benefit of oneself."

"What are its origins? When did people start using it?"

"Its origins are in the human heart," the historian responded with a sad sigh. "There lies in each of us the potential to allow pride and aspiration for greatness fester into the desire to conquer and rule over others. But as to _when_ dark magic came about…there is only legend. Do you remember the story I used to tell you in your childhood about the origin of the Seven Deserts?"

She shook her head, only able to recall it vaguely.

"There is an old legend that there was at one time not Seven, but Eight Deserts, each of them created by a god," he began, and she shifted her legs so she could sit more comfortably. Once the historian launched into a story, it was hard to stop him—both because he was so wrapped up in his love of history and mythology, and because his stories fascinated her as well.

"The eight gods watched over the many kingdoms that gradually rose in their respective realms. Over time the civilizations of man grew in size, power, wisdom, and wealth. The gods gifted their peoples with the ability to use different kinds of magic, and certain regions achieved great fame for their mastery of magical arts. Hence the gods measured their own success and glory by the achievements of their subjects. But one of the gods became obsessed with proving his superiority over the others, and began using magic to conquer, encouraging the kingdoms under his sway to specialize in destructive magic—now known as dark magic. He thus conquered three deserts that bordered his, enslaving many kingdoms and even imprisoning the three gods that guarded those realms. The other four gods immediately marched against him and his new followers; this was how the first Ancient War began. Over half of the human population in the Eight Deserts died, and entire kingdoms were wiped off the slate of history. In the end, after immeasurable costs had been exacted on both sides, the conqueror god was defeated. The three gods he imprisoned were freed, and together the seven decided how to punish their offending brother.

"Because he was divine, he could not be killed. But they did the closest thing they could to killing him by splintering his soul into countless pieces that could not be put back together. They then scattered the pieces across the land he had created, imbuing his essence into the sand. Thereafter, nothing could grow on the land as it was cursed with evil, and all those who had settled on it moved elsewhere, leaving it barren. That is why the desert there to this day is different from all the others, and why it is no longer counted among the major Deserts."

"The Land of the Black Sand," she said softly.

"Yes. I believe Your Highness has observed the properties of the sand there before," Thanon said, not elaborating on the specifics. It was not a pleasant experience to speak about. "There is magic in its intrinsic makeup, and thus it can easily be manipulated in spells."

"So only wizards and other magic users have lived on that land?"

"Few others have any wish to enter," he replied. "But yes, ambitious wizards and witches have tried to claim the land as their own many a time in the past. Its black sands have been darkened further with the blood spilt over ownership rights."

She decided not to ask about Mozenrath in particular yet. There was more she needed to know about the past.

"What do you know of Destane?"

The historian's gentle features hardened, and his voice was grave. "He was one of the most notorious wizards of the current age, known for his brutal conquest and massacres in the east in the past two decades. To utter his name in those lands is akin to a curse. But he is not as well known here since he turned all of his attention toward conquering elsewhere first. We are fortunate that he never did get to enter the west, as he was overthrown by his own apprentice several years ago. But I cannot say if we will continue to be so fortunate with the latest Lord of the Black Sand, as it seems he has taken a keen interest in Agrabah."

She kept her expression neutral as she refocused the conversation on Destane. She didn't want to discuss Mozenrath with anyone in the palace out of fear she would break one of the rules of his challenge. But she also didn't want to hear anyone speak ill of him at the moment, as she was just starting to revise her perception of him as an enemy. It was somewhat absurd that she was trying to be objective in judging him, but if she wanted to win, she had to think differently.

"Our kingdom must be better defended against dark magic, then. I'll need to know more about Destane in order to guard the city against his successor."

The historian looked thoughtful. "Very wise, Your Highness. But I am afraid I cannot tell you much more about Destane. I have not studied dark magic and its practitioners to a wide extent, as their history carries a rather vile stench. Most scholars steer clear of the subject since it tends to make others wary of their true intentions for studying the material. However, I do know one man…"

He hesitated despite the insistent look on her face. "Your Highness, I can tell you are eager to learn more for the sake of the kingdom, and that is of course very admirable. I assume that once I tell you about this acquaintance of mine, you will spare no time in seeking him out. But I must speak a word of caution. Those who learn too much of dark magic are soon haunted by it, and if they are not careful to keep separate the scholarly study of the subject from the personal desire to experiment, then it is very easy to become consumed by it."

She listened and nodded, knowing she would never fall into such a downward spiral. She had little desire to experiment with magic and even less of a desire to harm others.

"The man I know is one such example. When I saw him last, he was not quite right…not quite whole in mind and spirit. A brilliant scholar, but he fell into the lure of the craft he devoted his life to studying. In his old age, he has lost the ability to use magic, so you will not be harmed. He goes by the name of Eberzin and has made his home in the city of Seripensia. Rather a long distance from here, Your Highness. I pray…" He hesitated again, already seeming to regret telling her about this man. "I pray that if you must go, you will be very, very careful. As I have sworn an oath to support and protect the royal family, I am of the opinion that you should not go, though your cause for obtaining this knowledge is highly admirable."

"I am grateful for your concern, Councilor. I am aware of the dangers of such magic, having been on the receiving end of it several times. Please do not fear for my wellbeing, however. I will make sure to take the appropriate precautions before seeking out Eberzin. But I do not have much time in my schedule, and I will have to leave for Seripensia soon. I will need to know where Eberzin lives within the city."

The old man's face fell slightly, but he followed her orders. "I will give you his location as I knew it from several years ago, and we must hope that he has not moved elsewhere since then. I also have something from my study that I must give you to bring to him."

She followed Thanon to his study, which resembled a stuffy library. Books and scrolls lined all four walls up to the ceiling, and the most recent arrivals lay in neat stacks in the back corner. He removed one key from the dozens that hung from the closet door behind his desk, and bent down to unlock a drawer. He drew out a small, dusty chest and opened it to reveal a faded brass bracelet. The inside rim was rusted brown, and the outside was dented in a few places. It bore no engravings or lettering.

"Tell him that this is from Thanon, son of Gavir, and he will oblige your request," he said.

"Thank you." She accepted the old bracelet from him with curiosity. She would look at it more carefully later.

He pressed a piece of parchment into her hand with directions to Eberzin's residence. The worried look did not fade from his eyes as she left his study.

She would go that night, when no one could see her leave or return. Seripensia was far indeed, too far for Carpet to travel even in one day. She could not go under the pretense of an official visit since Agrabah had no business with that state, and it would take too long to get there by land in the first place. That left only Genie, but whatever excuse she gave him would still make him suspicious. He wasn't the best secret-keeper, either.

She paced back and forth in her bedroom after supper, stopping every few minutes to gather random belongings she would need for the secret journey. How could she get to Seripensia? Could she draw Eberzin to Agrabah somehow? But that would take too long once again. She had already donned her cloak and strapped a dagger to her belt, preparing herself for any trouble on the way. She just had to think a little harder…

She quietly left the palace by a familiar route through the gardens and slipped unnoticed into the streets. It didn't take her long to find her destination. Genie had recently created the rather eccentric-looking house for the two inhabitants after they had moved to Agrabah.

As she knocked, she couldn't help but smile at the neon sign hung over the pastel-colored door.

_Welcome to Eden, where you'll be just Dhandi._


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"I really don't like the feel of this," the jinni muttered as she looked up at the open gates of the foreign city. The air was foul from the stench of criminal corpses left hanging on posts along the road. Seripensia was one of the few kingdoms that carried out public executions outside its walls as a warning to all would-be lawbreakers coming into the city. In a poof of magic, Eden's entire body and head were covered in a sterile white outfit complete with heavy boots and a face mask.

The night was stiflingly silent as Jasmine walked toward the gates, made invisible by the jinni's magic. She put a hand on Eden's arm after stopping in the middle of the path.

"Just wait here for me. I'll be out in a few hours at most."

"I'd be a lot more at ease if I knew what was going on," Eden said, the strange outfit and mask disappearing in another cloud of green dust. She folded her arms and gave Jasmine a reproachful look.

Jasmine shook her head. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

She left the jinni outside the walls as she navigated the dimly lit streets of the foreign city on her own. She kept moving briskly, driven as much by her urgent mission as by the need to escape the oppressive gloom of this place as soon as possible. It was easy to avoid the few guards patrolling the area, but several times she paused and had to force herself to move on from the sight of dead and dying homeless in the dark alleyways.

Forcing her thoughts away from the ills of the city, she focused on the directions Thanon had given her. She entered an area where there were hardly any lights at all, and the houses were little more than dilapidated shacks. She slipped past another guard and into a small side alley where Eberzin supposedly lived. She looked up at the worn carvings on the wood of a certain door and deciphered a number matching the one on the parchment.

Hesitantly she rapped her knuckles against the door, wondering if she could knock louder without being heard by the night patrol. She whispered the word Eden had said would make her visible once more, and drew her hood over her face.

There was the sound of shuffling inside the house, and a click as a wooden slot slid open at her eye level. She suppressed a gasp as a bloodshot eye appeared suddenly in the slot and a filmy gray iris focused on her.

"What does the girl want?" came a cracked whisper. She fought the urge to draw back at the madness in the man's voice.

"I come seeking the knowledge of Eberzin," she said softly, forcing herself to stare back at the grotesque eye.

The skin around the eye creased like worn leather, and a deep, throaty cackle sounded through the wood of the door.

"I am he. What might this young maiden have to offer in exchange for my knowledge?" the voice said slyly.

She almost stepped back again but caught herself. "I have the word of Thanon, son of Gavir, that you will give me what I ask if I show you this," she hissed.

She held the brass bracelet up to the slot in the door. It gleamed dully under the single lamp hanging overhead. The eye immediately widened, veins bulging, before the slot slammed shut. She tensed as the door creaked open a second later, and a wizened hand beckoned her in.

It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight in the musty room. The old man shut the door and motioned for her to sit in a dusty chair beside a cluttered desk. The room was just as dense with written material as Thanon's study, but full of cobwebs and an ashen smell.

Tremors ran through the old man's emaciated frame as he sat down slowly behind the desk. Bony elbows protruded from his frayed gray robe, the mottled skin of his bald head glinting in the candlelight. One eye was permanently closed, the skin around it sagging as if rotten. The other eye which she had seen at the door roved about uneasily, looking her up and down as if searching for a threat. It settled on the brass bracelet she held in her hand, and a crooked smile formed on his pallid lips.

"So the master decides to pull rank," he said, baring teeth that were clearly rotting away as he began to cackle. She hid her disgust at the foul breath that assaulted her nostrils.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

The gray eye blinked curiously as the man's fingers began to tremble. "He doesn't tell the girl. Of course he doesn't tell the girl, why would he? Talk about everyone else's past but not your own, of course, the rule all great historians follow, yes of course."

She steeled herself against the fear creeping up her spine. Thanon had said he was harmless. She could easily escape if the situation took a turn for the worse.

"I want to know about the sorcerer Destane," she said, changing the topic in an attempt to recapture the man's attention.

The eye gleamed again as he stopped speaking to himself and focused on her once more. "One of the many names of evil, this is what the girl wishes to know."

"Yes. I wish to know all that you know of Destane," she repeated slowly and clearly.

He cackled again, an unwholesome sound that awakened a bat nesting on one of the shelves. It fluttered about over their heads until it found another niche to settle in.

"This old man is mad, yes he knows, but he is not deaf yet," Eberzin wheezed. He tapped the side of his head with a yellowed fingernail. "I hear many things still."

"Then tell me what you know."

"As long as the girl has time and stomach to spare," he said, his obliging tone carrying a nasty edge. She kept her face expressionless.

"Once upon a time…" the man began, then paused with a toothy smile. "Once upon a time…there is a very disappointing beginning. There is no birth, no childhood, no coming of age in this story. There is just a man, and his origins are blank. Lost in the vast pit of quicksand called history, yes of course, there are many things that human hands cannot draw out to remember and record. The man begins with a name, Destane, and he will end with it as well, in the memory of the last person to remember him."

She avoided the errant gaze of the gray eye as it traveled around her face, focusing instead on the worn, cluttered surface of the desk before her.

"There is a cursed land, blacker than a moonless sky, tainted with many names of evil. It is home to no living being that still desires to live. The sand itself is alive, but no one wishes it to live. They are afraid; everyone is afraid. So the kings and caliphs and their magic-blooded servants seal it away like the ugly little secret no one wants to speak about. No one looks for many years, because they can't see it. No one crosses over the border because the law says they can't, though the black sand whispers to all the magic-blooded who draw near. Come, it says. Come because your heart of hearts desires to, because you desire power. There is just this flimsy barrier. Break it and come.

"The quicksand swallows the names of those who try and fail. Many who fail are executed by the law, but the black sand continues to beckon. Come, you who dare to try. Come to taste this power. Years pass as vast deserts through a sieve, but then one name defies the pull of the quicksand. History spits forth the name of Destane because it refuses to sink into the forgotten sands of time. Destane breaks the seal and does not lose his life to the law of kings because he has power enough. He meets the whisper of the dark land with a promise that he will rule it, and in the same breath he promises he will rule the Seven Deserts with a fist blackened by the forgotten Eighth.

"Many years he stays in the land and does not move, does not leave, does not kill or conquer. Kings hold their breath; perhaps Destane will not do anything. Perhaps Destane just wants to play in the sand as a child…but of course, of course everyone knows that this child is playing in the sand as with a box of knives, slowly sharpened to slaughter. Those who enter to seek him out are never heard from again, and the black sand cackles with his voice. He is studying it, shaping it, mastering it, until it bends to his will and whispers in submission.

"The silent years end. He leaves the black land, and kings let out their held breath in cries of war. But of course, no one steps forth first, only waiting for him to arrive at their gates, hoping he will not. He visits a city of magic, seeking its power. The first kingdom to fall beneath his sand."

The bizarre tale was hardly how Jasmine had expected to learn about the sorcerer. She tried to take in as much as she could without stopping him, but she had to interrupt now. "What was the name of this city?"

"Helinth. The magic of restoration lives within its temple. Holy, revered, worshipped by many," he crowed, unaffected by her interruption. "But desecrated, torn down, left in desolation by Destane! Destane, the name is feared greatly after that. He has the magic of Helinth—what can stop him now?"

"What kind of magic did the city have?" she pressed.

"True to its name, of course, the city's magic is divine healing," he answered. "In the core of its temple, kept aflame by priests and acolytes, there is a pure ancient light, guarded through the centuries and treasured by all who know of it. Those who are sick, who feel the hands of death creeping within their skin, crawl with haste toward the city to be healed, thousands flock every year with this desperate wish. But no more, for Destane puts an end to it. Destane steals it, and it is never seen again. The city is gone, destroyed, the thousands who would go to find life given over to the hands of death."

"Why would he want the power of healing?"

"The girl does not think," he said with a scornful smile. "Rob his enemies of such power, and no one can be healed. And then he has it for his own purposes. He studies it again, like he studies the sand before. And he finds another use for it, not so pure and divine. Not to heal the living…but to revive the dead."

She shuddered, feeling sick. His pasty eye gleamed in delight at her discomfort.

"Heal the dead! Such is the dark mind, breathing dark magic," he said gleefully. "Destane commands more than sand. He commands bodies beyond death; they cannot feel pain, they need no food or rest. They move under his will and destroy when he pleases. He raises many, many of his enemies' corpses this way. Many, many say that he must be stopped, but of course, no one steps forth to stop him first. He goes on to more cities, more deserts, takes more power and magic, takes more bodies to build his army. And then, he realizes."

She leaned forward to catch his next words as his voice suddenly drew down to a conspiratorial whisper.

"He realizes he can do more than command bodies. The souls he discards—they have power! More power than reanimated sacks of flesh and bones. He keeps the souls then. And he begins making his weapon."

He settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile, as if he had just handed her a priceless treasure she did not deserve.

"What weapon?" she asked, trying to hide her impatience.

"The girl does not know," he said spitefully, perhaps dismayed that she was not showing any gratitude for what he had just disclosed.

"No, I don't know. That's why I'm asking," she retorted.

"The girl has stomach to spare. The story will continue for her." He let out a cackle as his mood seemed to spin around mercurially. "The weapon of Destane will be the bane of the Seven Deserts, he imagines. He harvests the power of souls to pour into the weapon. He needs many, many souls, of course. He thinks he may never have enough. But he tries, still. He takes many lives to make his weapon."

"What was it, some type of sword?" she said.

His single eye looked at her with condescension and pity. She glared back, irked by the madman's arrogance.

"The girl knows little. Blades are ill-suited for channeling magic. Destane's weapon is not a sword," he asserted. "It is a glove."

She did not move for several seconds.

…_you know nothing of this gauntlet, and you know nothing of power…_

Mozenrath's source of power was the souls of the dead?

The thought sickened her more than the touch of his skeletal hand. But she forced her mind away from it for the moment so she could listen to the rest of Eberzin's narration.

"Destane enters more cities, takes more lives, often in secret, sometimes in daylight. Whatever way gives him more power, he chooses to take. He is feared, more and more feared every time he leaves his land. He kills any who defy him, he cares not who they are. Kings fear him because he cares not that they are kings or that their sons are princes. He kills holy men as well, for their souls are exquisitely fit for his weapon. And so the story winds on, if the girl wishes to hear," Eberzin said, his last statement seemingly a question.

"So he just kept conquering, building his army and adding power to the glove," she said, mulling over the thought of how vile a man Destane must have been. "What happened to him in the end?"

"Ah, the end of Destane. Happily ever after…?" he trailed off with a nasty laugh. "Disappointing, disappointing, just like the beginning. A great sorcerer, a force that would have subdued the Seven Deserts, an infamous name of evil, dead! He is dead, and turned into a soulless soldier, all by another sorcerer's hand. Another sorcerer who still lives today, and has taken the black sand as his own."

"How did this sorcerer kill Destane?"

"The girl asks about a mystery. This sorcerer's name…the girl knows? Eberzin sees in her eyes, she does know." His aimless eye was suddenly fixed on her.

She stared back. "Yes, I know his name. But that doesn't matter; I want to know how he killed Destane."

"The girl cannot know here because Eberzin does not know. The sorcerer she knows is said to be Destane's apprentice. The girl will not say his name?"

"His name is Mozenrath," she said in annoyance. "What do you know about him?"

The old man shrugged, a strange gesture for his aged body. "The apprentice is powerful, of course, now he commands the undead army of Destane, now he has the glove as well. He is ambitious, he is young. He has time yet to fulfill his promises to the Seven Deserts."

"Where did he come from?"

"Once upon a time, again there is nothing," Eberzin said with a smirk. "Another disappointment for the girl. Who is Mozenrath, the name she does not like to speak? Maybe a homeless child Destane finds in some conquered city. Or maybe Destane's own son. The quicksand knows; Mozenrath knows. If neither wants to tell the girl, what will she do?"

"I guess I can't know, then," she said with a touch of sarcasm.

"Your desire to know is great, I can tell. In fact, this is your reason for visiting," he said, suddenly lucid as he watched her with interest. "There is a way to know outside of the quicksand and the sorcerer. But it will not be easy."

"What is it?"

"An object of magic," he said, his eye glinting. "The Mirror of Fiereve."

"A magic mirror," she said slowly. "Where can I find it?"

"There is a cave. Enter by a tiger's mouth, and touch nothing but…" He stopped and grinned at her. "The girl already knows, I can see in her eyes."

"So I have to go into the Cave of Wonders to get the mirror," she stated. It sounded so simple when she said it out loud, but to actually do it…she turned her mind away from that thought for a moment. "What exactly does this mirror do?"

"The Mirror of Fiereve reflects the sands of time, both forgotten and remembered. Through it, human hands may reach into the quicksand of history. But…" he trailed off.

"But what?" she persisted.

"There is a cost. The girl will pay with memory."

"What do you mean, 'pay with memory?'"

"The mirror draws in something the girl remembers in exchange for what she draws out of the quicksand," he replied, as if that explained everything.

She digested that unpleasant bit of information slowly, weighing the options that lay before her. No matter, she had to figure out how to get into the Cave of Wonders first.

"Thank you for your help," she said with a stiff bow as she stood up. She paused, remembering the faded brass bracelet in her hand. "Is this yours?"

"The master gives the girl the shackle without telling her what it is," the old man mused to himself. "Not mine, it is my master's."

"Who's your master?" she asked, confused.

"Thanon, son of Gavir," he answered calmly. "I am his slave."

"What? There is no slavery in Agrabah!"

"In other lands there is," he said with a faint, cruel smile, retreating again into madness. "Master Gavir buys Eberzin in the market. He buys many slaves because he likes to set them free. Here is the disappointment for the girl. Eberzin runs away without being freed. Eberzin is captured and sold again in the market. Thanon buys him because it is written in his dead father's will. Eberzin is never freed because Thanon does not trust him."

"So you're still a slave…but Thanon doesn't control you," she said flatly. "He's a good man. He wouldn't do that."

"Of course, of course, Eberzin's master is good. So good that he keeps the shackle as the only token of power over his slave. Then he gives it to a girl to use Eberzin for his knowledge, and Eberzin obeys even though it is time to sleep."

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said shortly. "I'll leave now."

"Farewell, young maiden. Take care not to trip in the sand," he said, laughing softly as she opened the door and hurried outside.

She was glad to be out of that dark house and away from the insane old man. Thanon's warning had been justified; Eberzin was indeed unwell in mind and spirit. But the historian hadn't told her about the personal history between them. It unsettled her that Thanon technically owned Eberzin as a slave, though the former had all but let him wander free. Eberzin was fortunate to have such a kind master.

She slipped out of the city easily enough even without an invisibility spell. The jinni who was waiting for her breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Jasmine approach.

"A little bit longer, and I was going to come looking for you. Now can you tell me what you went in there for?"

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Eden. But no, I can't tell you," she said sadly. "Let's just go back to Agrabah."

"Hmph. Well, I guess I should feel honored that you trust me more than you trust my loud-mouthed lump of a boyfriend," she said before transporting them both back to Agrabah in a flash of green light. Jasmine gratefully breathed in the familiar air of her city. They were standing outside the jinni's colorful home. Eden had conjured a pocket mirror and was gazing at her own reflection with a worried frown. "Speaking of which, I'd better get some sleep so I can look decent for our date tomorrow."

"Thanks for all your help," Jasmine said, giving her a brief hug. "Hope you have fun with Genie wherever you guys decide to go."

"Hope you don't get into any trouble with the secrets you're keeping, missy," Eden replied in a motherly tone. She looked at Jasmine seriously. "If you ever need help, just call for me, okay? I'll be listening for you."

"Thanks, Eden. Have a good night," Jasmine said as the jinni turned into a fly and zipped inside the window of her and Dhandi's home.

***

12.

***

She passed off her tiredness in the morning as a result of not having fully recovered from her cold. That afternoon she spent some time away from Aladdin and her advisors, looking for the object—or pair of objects, rather—that she needed. She finally found them locked away in a drawer she had all but forgotten about.

It felt strange to be going off on a risky adventure on her own. She had always had Aladdin with her on such trips, and she had always felt safe with him.

Then again, she had already gone the last twelve days on her own, and she had another eighteen to go. Hopefully with the Mirror, she'd cut down the time it took for her to win the challenge.

But it wasn't merely about winning anymore. It was about knowing the man who had come close to killing her and Aladdin several times in the past yet had fought to save her life several days earlier. Why would it have mattered to him if Saleen had killed her? If Mozenrath truly had found a way to take over the Seven Deserts, he didn't have to bother with protecting one princess.

Jasmine was starting to believe that he required her for his plan somehow. There was no other logical reason he would have stepped in with haste to save her.

Illogical explanations were another matter. To her irritation, she could not brush off the memory of his face when he had realized she was unaware of the aphrodisiac in her system. She had never seen him wear such an expression before, though she had witnessed a wide range of his emotions—smug, malicious, indifferent, furious, bitter…but the best word she could use to describe the look on his face then was unnerved. Perhaps he hadn't expected that any other man could have control over her, or that she'd allow herself to get into such a situation.

Did he actually care for her? The question had quietly embedded itself in her mind, and she could not dislodge it despite its illogicality. She could not imagine him caring for any living being other than himself, but now she wondered if she was an exception.

Was it possible that he didn't fully understand his own emotions? That whatever feelings he had for her weren't actually part of his plan?

She didn't know and she was afraid to find out, but at the same time she felt an unnerving thrill at the thought. The Mirror of Fiereve might be able to affirm her suspicions. She'd be able to find out if he really was watching her every move—could he be that obsessed with her?—or if he was true to his word and left her alone until she called for him. Perhaps she'd even see him formulate the plan he claimed would give him power over everything. And in the process she'd find out his true reason for singling her out.

It wasn't too strange for her to ask Aladdin if she could borrow Carpet for a night. He knew she sometimes sought to relax by taking a ride into the desert by herself. So he still suspected nothing as she flew off into the night with a pouch containing two golden scarab halves tucked into her cloak.

She stared ahead over endless dunes of sand, and as the clouds obscured the moon she realized that at night, all sand appeared almost black. She wondered if the view from the Citadel was similar to what she was seeing now.

And she tried not to think about why she was going to such great lengths to know the man behind the villain, because she no longer had a simple and impersonal answer. The disquieting truth was that the fine line between tenacity and obsession had begun to fray.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The night air chilled her skin as she flew across the desert, the city now far behind her. Carpet had hesitated for a second after she had shown it the pieces of the scarab, seeming to question why she wanted to go back to the magic cave where it had dwelled for thousands of years. She wondered if it would feel unpleasant for him to return there, but he had obliged her wish to go nonetheless. She spoke to him on the way, telling him that she was looking for a certain mirror, that this was a secret trip, and that she trusted him not to let anyone know.

They came to a stop before they crossed another dune, and Jasmine snapped the two pieces together carefully. They quickly melded into one and sprang alive as a glittering beetle, whizzing out of her fingers and away from her at incredible speed. Carpet followed at once without an express command from her, and she held on tightly as they chased the golden scarab. It split into two right before hitting a sand dune, and she drew back instinctively at the deep rumble that began underground. The sky began to roil and thunder and the sand before her rose to formidable heights, the two entry points of the scarab pieces flashing a blinding white. Excess sand fell away to reveal the giant face of a tiger.

The pure white eyes found her, and she shivered under the unnatural intensity of its gaze, the coldness of the air forgotten. It opened its jaws to speak, its breath blowing strands of her hair back from her face. She steeled herself at the sound of the low, earth-shaking voice that issued forth.

"WHO DISTURBS MY SLUMBER?"

"It is I, Jasmine. Princess of Agrabah," she answered as boldly as she could, her hands still clutching the carpet as if the slightest push would make her lose her balance.

The pause that followed seemed to freeze the air around her. To her knowledge, no one but Aladdin could enter the Cave. Then again, Iago had told them he had only seen one other person try and fail. Could there be others besides Aladdin who qualified?

"YOU ARE NOT THE DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH," the tiger's voice boomed, and Carpet retreated a few inches as Jasmine's grip tightened. But its great maw did not close. Its glowing eyes narrowed, and it paused again as if considering whether to let her in.

"I come for the good of my kingdom, nothing else," she said hesitantly, unsure if she should even be speaking. She half-expected the voice to rebuke her.

It seemed to ignore her statement as it spoke again. "BUT YOU ARE A DIAMOND AMONG PEARLS. ENTER, AND TOUCH NOTHING BUT THE MIRROR!"

She started in surprise at the Cave's knowledge of the item she sought. But it was not her place to ask questions; the Cave had deigned to grant her entry, and she began the long descent into the depths of the desert.

The first hall she entered easily spanned the length of the palace's east garden and the height of an arena. She had to crane her neck up to see the tops of the mountains of gold, jewels, statues, and other priceless objects sparkling all around her as the carpet flew on. Never had she seen such extravagant wealth; it was as if the entire worth of the city of Agrabah had been converted into solid gold and gathered in one room. But there was no tug of temptation at her heart, as she had no need for any of it. There was only fascination that such a Cave could exist, and that this was only the first room.

She kept her arms and legs closely tucked together to avoid brushing anything by accident. She wondered if the piles and piles of coins and gem-encrusted shields and polished instruments around her were real or an illusion. Aladdin had told her that it had all melted after Abu had touched one jewel. Had it all been restored by the magic of the Cave? Where did all this treasure come from, and what was the purpose of this place? Obviously it wasn't only for holding Genie's lamp, since Genie was no longer here.

There was so much she didn't know about magic. In the remaining days of Mozenrath's challenge, she could not hope to learn much more about it, but at least she could learn enough about him. Perhaps the most intriguing thing she'd learned so far was his adamant belief that power came at a cost. Now she was turning over the implications of that belief in her head, knowing the choice that she would soon face if she got her hands on the magic mirror. To look within it to see Mozenrath's past would require paying a toll, in essence. But Eberzin's words had been vague. What kind of memory would the Mirror take? What if the memories she lost would be commensurate with how much she saw in the Mirror? If she looked at twenty years of Mozenrath's life, would that mean that she would forget twenty years of her own?

Carpet maneuvered through several more rooms, each more dazzling than the one before. She passed rushing waterfalls of liquid gold, fountains that streamed with miniscule multi-colored jewels casting magnificent patterns of light around the walls, a giant chessboard of pieces carved from jade, ceilings covered in elaborate paintings that would have taken a lifetime for human hands to finish, and rows of ornately wrapped scrolls resting above simple words carved into the wood of the shelves that held them: _Wisdom. Desire. Duty._

She wondered what secrets lay inside those scrolls, as each of those words touched a part of her heart that yearned to know more. But Carpet had flown past those shelves already, and she reminded herself of the Cave's warning.

Carpet turned to the right, and they entered a room full of mirrors. Jasmine gasped at the sight of her face reflected back at her a thousand times from all directions. Some of the mirrors were floating in midair, and their surfaces tilted toward her as she passed them. There were floor-length mirrors, handheld mirrors, some that could be placed on top of vanities or hung on walls, some with elaborately embellished frames and others that were crudely carved. Carpet slowed to a halt. It would be difficult to maneuver in here, as the mirrors reflected their path in countless fragmented ways. Even the floor was covered in them, and she avoided looking down to keep her sense of balance.

"Carpet, where is it?" Her lips moved in a thousand panes of glass. He hesitated, then glided slowly around the room, avoiding floating mirrors with care. She tried to ignore how all the mirrors were tilting toward her, filling her range of sight with her own image.

But wait—she looked backward at a mirror she had just passed. That hadn't been right…

She stared at a long mirror that leaned against a wall. In the reflection, she wasn't wearing her teal green outfit, but a coarse brown robe that she sometimes used to venture onto the streets. Her hair was mussed and filthy, and her bare feet were caked with dirt. She peered more closely at her face; it was thinner, and there was a scar across her cheek.

As she watched, the blankness behind her reflection was filled with an image of the marketplace, bustling with activity and crowds of ordinary citizens going about their daily business. Her reflection turned and darted down a wide street, chased by turbaned guards with their swords drawn.

_Look within, and see what might have been._

She drew back from the mirror with a start, looking around for the source of the voice. The image was gone when she looked again at the surface of the mirror, as her focus had been broken. She tugged Carpet firmly to move on, knowing this was not the Mirror of Fiereve. She did not care to know what might have been in her life. She had been born royalty, and she would die royalty. Unless her parents had decided to abandon her, or if she had been kidnapped as a child…she pushed the thoughts away with irritation, trying to refocus on her task.

But soon another mirror made her pause. In it there was a young child, oddly familiar, staring at her with a wide, innocent gaze. She could not be older than five.

_This is what may yet be._

She looked closer and realized the girl shared many of her features—almond-shaped eyes, full, lustrous hair, and healthy, smooth skin. The girl smiled then as if in recognition, and Jasmine saw Aladdin's playfulness and warmth in the curve of her mouth. She realized abruptly that this was their child. Might be their child after they were married. She smiled back at her future daughter and waved as she started to fly on.

The girl's smile turned to a tearful frown, and she began to cry in earnest. It tugged at Jasmine's heart to see her hurt, but she did not turn back. The Cave of Wonders had to be testing her. Material wealth held no attraction for her, but these images did.

"Carpet, where's the Mirror?" she asked, wanting to escape the vertigo of this room as soon as possible. Carpet seemed unsure; perhaps he was confused as well. "I guess we have some time. Just make sure it's the right mirror before you tell me which one to touch."

She looked up again and suddenly wished she hadn't. She was staring straight at a scene of herself in a scanty red outfit, wrapping her arms around Jafar's neck as she forced their lips together. Something inside her twisted and she jerked her gaze away from the shameful memory.

_You are right; this is the mirror of shame._

"But I had no choice," she whispered. Kissing a man she did not love…she thought inadvertently of Raeven then, and her fingers curled more tightly around the edge of the carpet. She turned abruptly away from the disgusting scene and came face to face with a floating seashell-shaped mirror that showed her Raeven's face as a young boy. The image changed, and he was standing above her, holding his hand out to her to help her up. Her own hand entered the scene, accepting his show of chivalry, and she realized that she was viewing this memory through her own eyes as a child. He smiled warmly at her and made a joke about princesses always needing a prince's help.

_Regret. It follows you always, and you cannot be rid of it._

The small handheld mirror continued to follow her even after she urged Carpet to get away from it. She didn't want to see Raeven before he had changed. He had been a good friend, a good son, a good sultan-in-the-making. But he was no longer those things, and it didn't help to feel sorry about the past.

But of course, regret remained, just as the mirror had said. It floated after her, to her annoyance, and she raised a hand to push it away. Just in time she realized that she should not touch it and retracted her hand warily.

_This is your fear._

She turned and saw that several long mirrors had surrounded her in her distraction. They joined at the edges to form a hexagon of glass walls.

She shielded her eyes from the bright flare of flames within the glass. Gasping, she recognized what was burning—all of Agrabah. She whirled around on the carpet and saw scenes of destruction on all sides—canvases toppling over in flames and abandoned vendors' carts scorched and shattered; children running lost, trying to find their parents and stumbling on debris-strewn ground; giant clouds of black smoke rising into the air to surround a palace that stood eerily untouched by the fire. The image suddenly rushed toward her balcony in the palace, and she saw herself standing at the railing, her hands gripping the balustrade.

"You've disappointed me, Princess."

She drew back in shock at the voice. He knew she was in the Cave! But then she relaxed as the image of Mozenrath appeared in the mirror, merely a part of this scenario of fear. He leaned casually against a column beside her.

"You failed your kingdom and your people. And you failed me. I expected so much more from you."

She narrowed her eyes at the image of the sorcerer. "You just wait," she whispered. "I came to this Cave to make sure I don't fail."

_This is your fear._

"I spent so much time and effort to teach you. To help you with my own challenge! But you still couldn't get it. You still understand nothing," the image of Mozenrath said, and with a sweep of his hand the burning city suddenly darkened into an eerie, silent necropolis. His voice was a cold whisper as he drew one gloved finger down her cheek. "And now I have everything."

Shutting her eyes, she urged Carpet upward over the hexagonal walls. Echoes of Mozenrath's malicious laughter trailed after her.

_This is your fear_, the faint voice sounded again before she drew out of range.

"Carpet," she hissed, "do you remember where it is yet?"

He pointed ahead with one tassel, moving forward briskly, perhaps as bewildered by the mirrors as she was. She wondered if he was seeing the same images that she had, or if the mirrors held unique scenes for each person who looked within them.

Mirrors all around her were coming to life now, some moving out of their places on the walls to follow her, glassy surfaces gleaming with pictures from her own past, from the streets of Agrabah, from deserts and cities she had never seen before, showing her faces of people she had never met, and people she had met before but had since forgotten. She ducked lower on Carpet and covered her eyes to avoid the bombardment of images. A multitude of ethereal voices whispered in torrents, promising to show her what she most wanted, what she most hated, the last day of her life, the truth of her life's purpose.

She drowned them out with her own voice, shouting now to Carpet, asking again and again where the Mirror of Fiereve was. Her panic spurred him on and he dodged the moving mirrors with narrow precision, seeming to know his destination. They came to a stop in front of a waist-high mirror with a plain wooden frame, leaning still and unassuming against the wall. It was the only mirror that reflected nothing, its surface as opaque as a sheet of ice. Carpet gestured eagerly with both tassels, asserting that this was the one she was looking for.

Hesitantly she touched the frame, half-expecting the voices to rise in a keening chorus of angry protests. But the moment her fingers brushed the wood, complete silence fell around them. All the mirrors froze in place and showed ordinary reflections of the room once more. Feeling more confident, she lifted the Mirror of Fiereve easily from the floor and propped it against her side.

"Alright, let's go!" she said, and breathed a sigh of relief that they could leave this room at last. Carpet flew more slowly to accommodate the extra weight of the mirror, taking care not to swerve too much when he turned. Going back through all the rooms through which they had traveled was easier than coming in had been.

Their path curved steadily upward as Carpet neared the entrance of the Cave. She took in a full breath of cool night air as they finally exited, and the maw of the tiger behind them disintegrated into ordinary sand once more. She turned Carpet around and downward to look for the scarab pieces in the dark. Fortunately the moon was bright, allowing her to find them in only a few minutes.

It was well after midnight when she returned to her room and waved goodbye to Carpet, putting one finger to her lips as a last reminder to keep their trip a secret. He gave her a thumbs up with one tassel and flew away toward the city.

***

13.

***

She spent the next day writing the equivalent of a book. She had never imagined she would write an autobiography before she reached her father's age, and she hadn't even kept much of a diary in the past few years. But now it was necessary to write all she could about herself as a safeguard against the Mirror. At noon she paused and read over what she had written so far. Basic facts about her life: her birthdate, her place of birth, the many titles conferred upon her by her lineage, the names of people close to her and descriptions of her relationships with them.

If she truly forgot someone important in her life, she knew that reading mere words would not recover their worth to her. Her greatest fear was that she would forget Aladdin or her father, or that she would forget herself. It would be like the Rose of Forgetfulness debacle all over again.

She would make sure the book was right in front of her when she looked into the Mirror. Then when she was finished looking into the past, she would be able to read what she had written and hopefully make up for lost knowledge.

In the afternoon she wrote about the many enemies of Agrabah, complete with physical descriptions and details of how they had endangered the city before. Fortunately, she had spent so much time over the past two weeks thinking about past conspiracies that it was easy to list them off in an orderly fashion. Her quill paused as she began to write Mozenrath's name. She had deliberately saved him for last.

If she was going to look into the Mirror to learn all about him, was there still a point to writing about him here?

Yes, she decided. Whatever she happened to see in the Mirror, she could not forget that he had visited harm on her and her friends many times before. She also had to remember the details of the challenge he had given her, and that tonight would be the fourteenth night.

After supper, she locked her doors and windows as she sat down before the Mirror, now propped up on her dresser. Gripping the thick sheaf of parchment she had compiled, she stared at the opaque glass and considered what to do. She realized she didn't even know how to get the thing to work. But it was now or never; she had to try before all her doubts caught up with her.

"Show me the past of Mozenrath, Lord of the Black Sand," she said softly. The surface remained blank. She sighed. Magical items were never that simple to figure out.

She put the book down on her dresser and reached for the Mirror's frame. It was carved out of plain brown wood. The back of the Mirror was coarse and unpolished. Overall it didn't appear special or magical in any way outside of its non-reflective surface.

She peered more closely at the top of the frame and saw there were words carved there that were almost too shallow to make out. The rigid shapes of all the letters reminded her of some foreign language she had once seen while traveling through a town in the east, but she could not remember what tongue it was.

She went to her shelf and pulled out dictionaries of various languages. She hadn't used any of them since she had been forced to study them as a child. There was one book on linguistics that might have the answer…she pored through the thick tome, hoping to find some recognizable letter that looked similar to what was written on the Mirror.

Her eyes caught a squarish-looking symbol on one of the pages, and she read a brief description of the language it belonged to. Ancient Issychian. It was a dead language, only familiar to scholars now. She glanced back at the Mirror, wondering just how old it was and when it had last been used. How long had it been in the Cave of Wonders? As long as Genie had before Aladdin had gone in?

She spent an hour looking up each symbol in the appropriate dictionary, piecing them together as words at a painstakingly slow pace. It was a bit irritating to have to spend so much time on translating two short lines, but she supposed she was making good time for a person who knew absolutely no Issychian.

At last she deciphered the lines of cryptic text and stared at them in intrigue. They rhymed even in translation.

She read them first in broken Issychian, certain that her pronunciation was off in many places. The Mirror's surface did not change. She tried several different ways of pronouncing the words, but to no avail. Frustrated, she glared at the glass as if staring at it hard enough would make it work.

She looked down at her translation and decided to try that instead.

"Within the sand lies all that has been set in stone. Search within for that which to you is unknown."

The Mirror shimmered, the opaqueness of the surface seeming to clear like fog from morning air. She drew back, her hands tensing on the parchment of her recorded memories. Instead of an opaque sheet of glass, it was now a sheet of sand. She reached forward and brushed the surface with her fingers, and let out a yelp as an unseen force pulled her hand inside.

The quicksand…

Too late she realized the significance of Eberzin's analogy. The Mirror of Fiereve held all of history, a pit of quicksand deep and vast beyond measure. Her arm was now in the Mirror up to her elbow, and she tried in vain to pull it out. The suction was too strong even as she braced herself against the dresser and tried to push away with her legs.

"Stop!" she commanded in desperation, pounding on the frame of the Mirror with her free hand. She jerked in surprise as a voice answered her.

_Search within._

Search within for that which to you is unknown, the inscription had said. Her eyes widened as she realized the meaning was literal. She had to enter the sand…

Would it let her back out? She was in a panic, still scrambling to pull her arm away. What if it didn't? The pull of the sand brought back the memory of the hourglass, of suffocation, her hand reaching out helplessly toward Aladdin as a giant snake swung him mercilessly away from her. The sand had filled her ears, nose, and mouth, shutting out all sound and her own cries for help. She did not want to experience that again.

Her arm was in the Mirror up to the shoulder now. She had to crane her neck back to protect her face from the sand. What could she do? Maybe she could smash the Mirror and break free then. She bit her lip and tried to clear her head of the panic that made it impossible to think.

_Search within,_ the voice repeated.

Eberzin would have told her if there was no returning from the Mirror once she entered. He had merely said that it would take a part of her memory. That meant it would have to let her out at some point…she hoped.

But how long would she be gone? What if it took more than a day? People would assume she had gone missing. What was she to do? In a last-ditch effort she gripped a quill and scrawled a note with her left hand on top of her parchment of memories.

_Had to go. Will be back soon – Jasmine_

She took a breath and dove into the sand.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

She could breathe. That was her first thought after her entire body passed through the Mirror. It was like swimming through the ocean under Saleen's breath-enabling spell, though there was not a drop of water in the surrounding sand. It sifted through her fingers easily, caressing her skin as she was pulled along by some invisible force.

_What is it that you seek?_

The voice issued forth from an unseen place in front of her, but she kept moving forward without reaching a pocket of air. She wondered if this desert stretched on forever.

"I seek the past of Mozenrath, Lord of the Black Sand," she said, and the sand parted cleanly before her lips when she spoke. "Beginning with his birth."

Her heartbeat quickened in rising excitement as the sand grew thinner. A glowing light appeared ahead, and the sand suddenly fell away from her limbs. She dropped alarmingly fast and landed on her knees on solid ground, but she swiftly scrambled to her feet and glanced upward at the vortex that had dumped her here. It was already gone. She made as if to brush sand off her clothing, but found not one grain on her body.

She was in an extravagant palace, the floor and ceiling and walls all embroidered with gold. The air smelled of rich incense, and the vaulted ceiling towered above her, inlaid with jewels. Lining the walls were potted plants of all sorts. She could identify some of them as herbs with healing properties. At the center of the room was an ornately carved throne, a giant emblem of a sun blazing above it. The entire throne room was empty except for a few guards standing by the main doors. She quickly darted behind a column, but as she looked at the floor she realized she cast no shadow.

Hearing shouts to her right, she cautiously approached the doorway. She pushed aside the long curtain and went in. There was a crowd milling about in one corner, their attention focused on something she could not see. She identified the sultan by his regal clothing and jewel-encrusted turban as he backed away from the others and let out a deep, merry laugh. With strong hands he lifted up a small, wailing baby and kissed its forehead. Jasmine's hand flew to her mouth at the import of what she was seeing.

Beginning with his birth, she had said to the voice in the Mirror.

Mozenrath had been born into a royal family. He was not Destane's son or a boy picked off the street. He was a prince.

She watched the joyful scene in wordless awe. The various courtiers and doctors who had crowded around the sultana's bed soon left the room at the sultan's command. The baby had been delivered without complications, and he wanted to be alone with his wife and newborn child.

She drew closer slowly, still wary of being seen though none of the people who had left the room had taken notice of her. Accompanying her unease was a prickle of guilt that she was a voyeur here, witnessing things not even Mozenrath himself remembered. He had invaded her dreams, but she was now able to invade his most personal moments. A light rush of something she had never felt before followed that thought. Was this what it felt like to have true power over someone? It was a heady, dangerous feeling.

"The naming ceremony will be in a week's time," the sultan said to his wife, who smiled tiredly up at him. He removed his turban, revealing a head of dark curls as he leaned down to kiss her.

"This child is not ours to name," she said, her voice rich and mellifluous even in her weary state. Her eyes seemed half-closed, but Jasmine realized they were naturally heavy-lidded, her beautiful long eyelashes brushing her cheeks when she blinked. Her lips were full and smooth, her smile seeming to warm the air around them. Something in Jasmine's heart shifted painfully as she realized how much Mozenrath resembled his mother. But she had never seen warmth in his smile.

"Why?" the sultan asked, puzzled. Jasmine moved to the side to get a better look at Mozenrath's father. He was a tall, stately man with sharply defined features. His face was long, his cheekbones high and prominent, giving him an aristocratic, commanding air. Unbound by his turban, his hair fell across his forehead in a haphazard manner, reminding her fleetingly of Aladdin.

"Because," the sultana said, stretching her arms out to take the child from her husband, "I had a dream yesterday."

His expression immediately grew serious. "What did you see?"

"I saw the Light of the temple," she said in a serene voice as she stroked her baby's face. The boy was no longer crying and started to fidget restlessly in her arms. "It passed over our other children and remained on him."

The sultan stood stiff and unmoving by the bedside. Conflicting emotions flitted across his face as his gaze moved from his wife to their child.

"The others are all daughters," he stated, his voice soft and flat.

"And this one would be your heir," she finished for him. Her long-lashed eyes watched him levelly, unbowed by his tone. "I have longed for a son as well. But he is not ours. He belongs to the Light."

The sultan's jaw clenched in wordless protest; the anguish in his proud features was clear. The sultana said nothing in response, continuing to regard her husband calmly, waiting for him to speak again.

He sounded pained when he did. "Are you sure about the meaning of this dream, Andraya?"

"Helios could give no clearer sign, love. This child has a destiny beyond the throne. He will serve a higher calling than our mortal hands can grant him. It is a privilege to have borne one of the chosen," she said gently.

The sultan bowed his head, submitting his own will to his wife's. Jasmine wondered how a man could submit so easily to a woman; what land was this? Or was the sultana of some special status?

If Mozenrath had been born to such noble parents, how had he ever become a sorcerer of dark magic?

The air blurred around her, a soft current of sand passing across her vision, and she was in a different place. She was standing on the polished steps of a giant temple, every inch of it pure white. The great dome was encircled by a single ring of gold at its base. Its wide embellished gates stood open, and people in white robes were filing past her to enter, heads bowed in reverence.

She followed the lines of people flowing into the temple, wondering where the sultan and sultana were. She entered the rotunda, a vast circular room ringed with rows of people in immaculate robes. At the center there was a raised dais where a high priest stood, recognizable by the embroidered gold on his clothing. He was flanked by two others also clad in plain white. From the curly black hair of the taller figure, Jasmine knew the two were the sultan and sultana. The priest held up a tiny infant for the crowd to see.

"Benevolent Helios smiles upon his people today as always," the man proclaimed, his voice clear and full of quiet joy. "He has cast His Light on the ruling house of Helinth, setting apart a new servant of His holy will. Let us give Helios the glory of the life this child will live."

A chorus of murmurs arose. Jasmine realized they were praying, many looking heavenward with peaceful smiles. She moved around the dais to see the faces of Mozenrath's parents. His mother's eyes were closed serenely, her arms folded in her robe. She was smiling, but a single tear ran unobtrusively down her cheek. The sultan stood still as a statue, his expression unreadable as he watched every movement of the priest. The latter's right hand began to glow a soft yellow, and he placed his palm gently on the baby's forehead. Chanting words Jasmine could not understand, he closed his eyes and seemed to perform some kind of magic on the child, bathing his body in a light glow.

"May Helios protect you and guide you in His Light," he said, speaking directly to the boy. He continued to squirm in the priest's hands, looking around with curious eyes that were now lit an unnatural gold under the priest's magic. "Your name will be Morathai, keeper of His power."

There were too many questions in her head. Mozenrath was not only a prince; he was a servant in a temple of Light. How had his life taken such a drastic turn?

The ensuing chorus of cheers and singing faded quickly as the sand swirled around her, and she found herself still in the temple. Briefly she wondered how the Mirror was directing her steps, why it was only letting her see certain scenes and not the continuous path of Mozenrath's life.

There was a group of young priests standing beside her. They were in a small atrium lined with tables and cushions. It resembled a classroom.

She moved closer to hear what they were talking about. There were five of them, and none of them looked older than thirty.

"Elder Irodan is going to take over from here," a fair-haired man said, smiling wryly. "I can't help the boy channel his power. Apparently he's some kind of special case."

"As you might know, Elin, the sultana visited yesterday, and some say she might begin teaching him herself. I'd say she knows more about his unique power than the high priest," the tallest man sniffed. His face reminded Jasmine distinctly of an eagle, with a thin nose that jutted forth sharply and eyes that were narrow and sharp.

"Don't underestimate the Eldest," another warned him. A pause, and a knowing look. "He'll notice you yet, Sider. Have patience."

The man named Sider did not respond, only raising his chin in a regal manner. Jasmine had caught the gist of the conversation so far. Even temples had politics brewing within them.

"The boy should be here any minute," a fourth man said, looking around with bespectacled eyes. "Perhaps we should take our seats."

"We should cast the spells first, Taral."

One by one, the men chanted a brief incantation, and swept their right hands diagonally across their chests. In a shimmer of light they faded from sight. Jasmine stepped back uneasily, wondering if they were still there or if they had teleported somewhere else. She realized it was just an invisibility spell as she heard the sound of their hurried footsteps around the room.

She heard more footsteps coming down the hall, but they were clearly that of a young child, too quick and irregular to be an adult's.

A black-haired boy no older than three burst through the curtain and right toward Jasmine. She stepped aside quickly as he passed and began climbing the steps with clumsy determination, one small foot after another. There was a chuckle from the doorway and she looked to see an elder priest leaning against the wall, watching the child's eager antics.

"Hope you men hid yourselves better this time," the old man called to the seemingly empty room. There was no response from the five young priests. "Morathai learns fast."

She followed the boy cautiously as he scurried across rows of neatly arranged cushions, kicking them aside in his haste to find the invisible men. A happy smile was plastered on his chubby face as he paused to brush his long curls out of his eyes. Jasmine smiled sadly, wondering how long he would be able to live so innocently, and how long it would be before he received a new name.

"Morathai," the priest called from the doorway. "Slow down. Concentrate like I taught you."

The boy nodded briefly and plopped down on one of the cushions, his little feet hardly able to touch the ground. Jasmine watched in fascination as he closed his eyes and his face became blank. After several seconds of silence he opened them again and climbed onto the table in front of him. Jasmine's arm jerked forward instinctively as he jumped, but she was too far away.

"Found you!"

He landed on thin air, his arms wrapped around an invisible form that quickly shimmered into view. It was the priest with the glasses. He turned around and snatched the boy off his shoulder, setting him down on the floor with a laugh. "That was quick, young master. Excellent job!"

Taral ruffled the child's hair and gave him a light push to continue with the lesson.

Jasmine sat down heavily on one of the tables. This was much harder to watch than she had thought. Each minute she saw of Mozenrath's childhood gave rise to more questions. But above all she felt a motherly sadness as she watched the innocent boy, knowing what he would eventually become. She wondered how much of this the sorcerer remembered.

Then she gasped at the sudden connection. The high priest had said this was the city of Helinth. Its temple harbored the potent healing magic Destane had coveted.

She looked down at the boy now scrambling across another row of cushions.

Destane would put an end to everything he had known thus far. The magnificent temple where he lived, the kind priests who took care of him and taught him magic, his gracious and loving parents, all the people of this magical city…

It took the boy less than two minutes to find the remaining four priests. Congratulating the child, they convened at the front of the atrium to speak with the elder.

But she could no longer hear their voices. Sand had begun to swirl around her, brushing against her legs and encircling her waist. She shielded her eyes as it began to spin in a whirlwind around her face and obscured her field of vision.

_The price, _the voice of the Mirror said.

Bewildered, she noticed her surroundings had changed as the sand receded from her. She was standing in her own palace gardens, beside the fountain where she had so often watched her reflection growing up.

She turned around briskly as she heard her father's voice.

"Dearest, I have a gift for you."

He was walking toward her, gently tugging a younger version of herself along. Jasmine stared at the young girl who shared her features. She must have been five at the time, her wide eyes full of admiration of her father. It was strange to see herself at a time when her father was taller than her.

"What is it?" she chirped. She broke free of his grasp and skipped ahead. Jasmine moved aside as her younger self clambered onto the rim of the fountain and stood up brazenly, both arms spread out to balance herself. Her father immediately rushed to her side and scooped her into his arms, scolding her.

"You will receive no gifts deserving of a princess if you do not act like a princess," he said sternly. "Do you want the gift or not?"

"Okay, okay, Father!" she said, wriggling out of his arms.

Jasmine remembered this.

Her father gestured to the guards nearby, and they brought forth a cloth-covered cage.

Jasmine backed away as her father removed the cloth and revealed what was inside. It was a tiger cub.

_No_. _No, not this memory!_

The young girl squealed in delight as she held Rajah for the first time. Her father beamed, happy because his daughter was happy. Jasmine stood there unmoving, watching her own memory and dreading what would soon happen.

Sand began to swirl around her again. But this time it was everywhere, sweeping across the grounds of the palace gardens, covering all that was green with its earthy tone, filling the air with dust too thick to see through. She shielded her eyes once more, but the sand was curling around her entire body, constricting her as if she were once again trapped in a giant hourglass. She struggled to breathe and choked as it seeped into her mouth and nostrils, and soon she could no longer hear because it had filled her ears.

It was dragging her down like quicksand. She held her breath and tried not to panic, but she was sinking fast and could not even move to fight against its pull. Images flashed in her mind, the vivid color and sound of this precious childhood memory as she remembered how it felt to hold her beloved friend for the first time, how special that day had been.

She tilted her head back as it was the last part of her to sink into the ground. The sand seemed to condense around her skull, and some unseen force tugged her scalp as the rest of her body was dragged downward. The memory was being filtered out of her like gold through a sieve.

A terrible pain speared through her as something in her head seemed to tear, and the images vanished from her mind. She sank fully into the ground and was suddenly falling through open air.

She landed on a hard marble floor and rolled onto her side. Her head throbbed so much that it took her several seconds to regain her senses.

What had she just forgotten?

She knew she had forgotten something, and she dreaded that it was something important. What had it been?

At the sound of a distant explosion, she turned her thoughts away from that troubling matter for now. She stood up shakily and braced herself against a large ornate column. With a quick glance around, she saw that she was once again in the temple of Helinth.

"He's heading here! We cannot let him enter the sanctuary!"

She hardly had time to step out of the way as several men in priests' robes ran by her, shouting to each other in clear panic. She looked around in confusion, seeing that the temple steps leading down to the city square were filling quickly with armed guards. There was another explosion that threw several of the men off their feet. Black smoke was advancing over the rooftops and pouring down into the streets, into doorways and windows. The screams she heard all around her chilled the blood in her veins.

Vague forms of bodies stumbled out from their houses swathed in smoke, emitting hoarse cries of impending death. They struggled in vain to break free of whatever the black substance was, but all eventually fell to the ground and went still. The guards on the temple steps were visibly trembling but stood their ground as the smoke advanced.

As it came closer, she realized it was not smoke, but sand.

This must have been the day Destane invaded Helinth.

Jasmine turned and ran back into the temple, not wanting to see any more people die by the sorcerer's magic. Her heart was pounding as she ran down hallways and through rooms she did not recognize, looking for Mozenrath. She skidded to a stop as she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in one room. She turned back just as the woman she had seen began speaking to the young priest named Taral.

"Take him out of the city. Go as far as you can from here, as long as your shield holds," the sultana said in a calm, steady voice.

"Your Highness," the bespectacled priest said nervously, his face pale. "What will you do?"

"I will do my duty to my kingdom and protect the sanctuary," she answered. "And you will do yours as I have commanded you: protect my son. Leave now."

He nodded quickly as the sultana knelt down and spoke in a gentler tone to the child Jasmine had just noticed was there.

"Be brave," the woman said to the curly-haired boy, and hugged him tightly. "Remember what you've learned here. Be brave."

The boy nodded solemnly, seeming to have a solid understanding of the situation despite his young age.

Taral bowed his head in deference and grasped the boy's hand as his mother took her leave. "It has been an honor to serve you, Your Highness."

The sultana turned back, her dark eyes clear as polished onyx. "Serve the Light, Taral. As long as His servants live on, there is hope."

A chorus of screams echoed within the temple as the sultana hurried from the room. Whatever magic or demonic forces Destane had let loose was already inside. Taral looked down at the solemn-eyed boy and smiled tightly. "Let's go."

He drew his robe in a sweeping arc around them both, and they disappeared in a flash of light.

Her vision turned blinding white for a split-second before she could see again. She must have been transported by Taral's spell as well.

She was now surrounded by desert under a fiery midday sun. The temple was nowhere to be seen.

But to her side was a long trail of people stumbling through the sand, parents tugging their children behind them or carrying them on their backs, old women who looked like they would soon faint from the heat, and strong young men helping some of the others along. She looked in the direction they were coming from and saw a burning city in the distance. These must have been the survivors of Helinth, now mere refugees.

She could not see Taral or Mozenrath anywhere, but they couldn't have run far from here if she had been transported with them.

Then she saw two pairs of footprints in the sand near her, one belonging to a grown man and the other a young child. Her eyes quickly followed their tracks to where they joined the line of refugees. Taral must have cast an invisibility spell, hoping to blend in with the crowd when it wore off.

She walked alongside the seemingly endless trail of survivors for an indeterminate amount of time. It was hard to gauge the passing of time within the Mirror, and she did not feel weary from walking or hot from the sun. All the while she scanned the crowd around her, looking for a familiar white robe and a boy with curly black hair. She had to give Taral credit for holding his spell this long.

Day bled slowly into dusk as the sun sank to the edge of the horizon. Several people had already stopped to make camp in the middle of the desert, having little else but their own clothing and some scanty supplies to last them through the night. No one had wood for making a fire. They likely hadn't had any time to prepare before they had had to flee the city.

The trail ahead was thinning as more and more people stopped to settle down for the night. She tried to find footprints that didn't seem to belong to anyone in front of her. It was growing harder to see in the dimming light.

Another unknown span of time passed before she spied a man clad in a soiled white robe who hadn't been there a second earlier. He stumbled and fell, and did not make any effort to rise again. Those walking nearby hardly spared him a glance and proceeded on their way. A boy knelt by the priest, tugging at his shoulder. Jasmine raced toward them.

"…think I just twisted something. Give me a minute," Taral said with a grimace. He pulled himself painfully into a sitting position and touched his right ankle gingerly with one hand. The tips of his fingers began to glow, and he touched them to the area that was starting to swell. Sweat trickled down his face as he concentrated, but the glow quickly faded from his fingers.

He broke off and collapsed backward into the sand, breathing hard. At the boy's shout of alarm, he tilted his head toward him and spoke again. "I'm sorry, young master. Foolish old Taral used up all his strength, just like you've been taught not to do. I only wanted to make sure you were safe…follow what Her Majesty said…"

"We can keep going!" the boy said adamantly. His own clothing was dirty from the long trip they had taken. "I'll heal you."

The priest smiled in spite of his pain. "Don't worry, just wait another few hours and I'll be strong enough to heal myself."

"No!" Mozenrath insisted with a frown. His expressions as a six or seven year-old were already starting to mirror what he looked like in adulthood. "You think I can't do it. But I can!"

He placed two small hands over Taral's swollen ankle despite the priest's protests. Jasmine watched in fascination as a steady glow surrounded the limb and Taral fell silent in equal astonishment. Mozenrath's face scrunched up in concentration as healing magic poured forth from his hands.

Taral sat up when the boy finished. He tentatively rotated his foot, testing to see if the child really had done it. A wide smile spread across his face, and he looked at Mozenrath in awe as he got to his feet. "You are very special, young master. Elder Irodan always said so, and I fully believe it now."

He looked up at the darkening sky and then at the endless dunes of sand in front of them. "Let's keep walking until we find a good place to settle down for the night."

She followed them and listened to the steady stream of questions Mozenrath had for Taral. She guessed that they had had to keep silent so as not to attract attention before. Any young child would have found such a stretch of silence unbearable.

"What did that sorcerer want with the temple's magic?"

"I don't know. Sometimes people are greedy and want things all to themselves even if they're supposed to be for everyone to share."

"But he isn't even from Helinth, is he?"

"No, he's not."

"Will we be going back soon?"

Taral kept his expression neutral. "We'll see. I don't know."

"Will my mother join us down the road then?"

"I hope so."

"What about my father? Where was he when we left?"

Taral paused a moment too long before answering, and his eyes were pained, confirming Jasmine's worst suspicions. "Your father was leading the fight as the strongest of Helinth's defenders."

Mozenrath fell silent for several minutes. Jasmine wondered if he understood the unspoken implications of Taral's answer.

"How long will we be running away?" The boy's tone had changed.

"Until we find somewhere safe to stay," Taral answered, trying to hide the sorrow in his voice. "We'll find a place soon. Most of the others on the trail have already stopped to rest."

"But I want to go back," Mozenrath said firmly. "My parents and Elder Irodan didn't run away. Why are we?"

"Didn't you hear your mother? She told me to keep you safe."

"But she also said to remember what I learned. Elder Irodan taught me that running away is what cowards do."

Jasmine was surprised at the twist in the conversation. The boy's reasoning skills were amazingly acute for his age.

"Your mother is the sultana, and I have to obey her direct orders," Taral said, falling back on the standard argument of authority Jasmine was well acquainted with.

Mozenrath frowned but did not respond to that, choosing to change the topic instead. "How did the sorcerer get into the city? Father said the walls don't let anyone with evil magic in."

"That's another thing I don't know," Taral said grimly. "He shouldn't have been able to enter."

Jasmine jumped as a third voice spoke right next to her ear. "Let me clue you in then, Taral. Your ignorance is too much for me to bear."

She took several steps away from the man who had just appeared out of thin air beside her. She recognized him instantly by his aquiline features. His white robes were splattered with blood.

Taral's initial expression of shock turned to a wary look of distrust. "Sider, did you just escape? What's happening back there?"

"You mean what happened there," Sider said coolly, his haughty gaze sweeping over his disheveled fellow priest and the young boy beside him. "Destane has already taken the city and the power of the temple."

"What about my parents?" Mozenrath cut in anxiously.

Taral put a protective arm around the boy's shoulders as Sider began to laugh. The aura of suspicion about the man immediately soured into utter wrongness.

"What's gotten into you?" Taral snapped.

Sider ignored him. "I only know about your mother, little Morathai," he said in a terribly empty voice. "She put up a good fight, might have put a scratch on Destane if I hadn't seen to—"

He was thrown to the ground by a sudden blast of power from Taral.

"You let him into the city," Taral gritted out in mounting anger. "You gave us all over to a monster!"

Sider stood slowly and brushed the sand off his crimson-streaked robes. His eyes flashed dangerously as he returned Taral's glare. "I learned that there is more to life than serving the whims of a deity, especially one that supposedly speaks through the elders of a temple. A pity none of you realized it sooner. Why live your life always subjecting yourselves to the will of others and not your own?"

"No one ever forced you to stay, you ungrateful snake! Elder Irodan would have let you leave if you wanted to," Taral spoke with tightly coiled fury. "But you didn't want to leave. You wanted recognition, was that it? You wanted to be promoted, all of us knew that. But none of us imagined you would have gone so far as to betray the entire kingdom!"

"Say what you wish; I care nothing for your petty judgment. Let's just get down to what I came for," Sider said coldly. His eyes fell on Mozenrath. "The boy will come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" the boy shouted.

"So you're obeying a new master now," Taral said, drawing the boy closer to his side. "What did Destane offer you in exchange for entry into Helinth? A share of his dark magic? A seat at his right hand when he starts carving out an empire for himself?"

"It's of no relevance to you. Just hand over the boy."

"What does Destane want with him?" Taral asked, seemingly trying to buy more time. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face; one hand had curled into a fist, half-hidden in his robes. It was beginning to glow.

"He'll find out once he meets Destane, won't he?"

Sider made his move then, throwing his right hand forward with a quick incantation. The air around them exploded in light, and for several seconds Jasmine could only hear the beginning of the battle.

"Morathai, get out of here!"

Taral's desperate command was followed by a scream of pain. Jasmine's vision cleared and she saw that he had fallen to one knee, holding his left side with bloodied hands. Mozenrath dashed toward him with a concerned cry.

"No!" Taral pushed the boy forcefully away from him with one hand and raised the other to guard against Sider's next spell. "Morathai!" he yelled without looking back. "Teleport now!"

"But I've never done it before!" Mozenrath was clearly terrified now, no longer trying to prove his precocious abilities to anyone.

"You can! You have to!" Taral used both hands to weave some kind of repelling spell, throwing Sider back temporarily and binding him in place.

"Give it up, Taral! My patience is wearing thin!" he sneered.

"So is your energy. Your new master didn't give you enough power to finish me off," the priest taunted even as he coughed blood. "Morathai, give me your hand."

"I want you to come with me!"

Taral shook his head adamantly. "I'll come find you later! Give me your hand now!"

Mozenrath approached him again, and Taral grasped his hand firmly. To Jasmine's horror, he dug his other hand into the wound in his side, soaking the sand around them with crimson. With that same hand he gathered the bloodied sand in his palm and spread it across Mozenrath's feet while chanting a spell. The boy disappeared before he could protest.

The binding spell broke then, and Sider promptly fired a piercing blast of light point-blank at Taral's heart.

"Obstinate fool. A rudimentary spell like that isn't going to hide him for long," he said scornfully as Taral fell onto his back, clutching his chest.

And then Jasmine could no longer see them because the sands were swirling around her and she heard the voice of the Mirror once again. It was demanding its price for her knowledge of that pivotal scene in Mozenrath's life.

The sands receded gradually and she saw that she was in her own room in the palace, and her younger self was being tucked into bed by her father.

"She was a beautiful lady," the sultan was saying. "She passed her beauty onto you, my dear. In you I see her eyes and her smile."

Jasmine wrinkled her nose at him. "You already told me that, Father. What else was she like?"

"Well," the sultan said thoughtfully. "She was kind and full of compassion. It is because of her that I loosened our laws concerning child criminals."

"Child criminals? Why would children do bad things?" she asked.

"Many children in Agrabah do not live like you do, Jasmine," he said gently. "In the palace you have everything you need and want. But other boys and girls are not so lucky. Their families are poor and cannot afford food or water. Sometimes they cannot even afford a place to live, so they must live on the streets. Some of the children do not have parents, and they must fend for themselves. So they must steal and do other bad things to survive."

Jasmine's younger self digested her father's words soberly. "Why would we have laws against them if they can't help but steal?"

The sultan looked uncomfortable and seemed to struggle for an appropriate answer. "Because the merchants they steal from must also make a living somehow, and if too many things are stolen from them, then they and their families will become poor as well."

"Why don't we just let them live in the palace? Or we could give them the food left over from supper."

"There are many, many poor children, my dear. More than we can fit in this palace. The best thing we can do is to be grateful for what we have and to set an example for our people so they will be kinder to each other and help children in need."

"But I want to help them, Father! Why leave it to other people?"

Jasmine shook her head sadly as she sat down on the edge of her bed beside her younger self. Even at that age she had gone against her father's attitude of inaction. She thought of where Aladdin must have been at that time—a poor boy with no parents and no home, who had to learn to lie and steal to scrape by. What different lives they had been born into.

She felt resentful against her father for keeping her from seeing the truth of what the city was like. Before she had run away on her own, she had never gotten a real glimpse of how the poor lived. She had inherited some degree of her mother's sense of compassion, but she hadn't had a chance to carry it out for most of her young life.

She listened to the rest of their conversation detachedly, wanting to get back to Mozenrath's past. She had indeed been a very spoiled and sheltered child. Her father soon kissed her goodnight and left the room.

He had sheltered her out of love, she reminded herself. She shouldn't feel so resentful and critical of him all the time. He was a loving father and had raised her as best he could without her mother, who had died when she was too young to remember. From the way he spoke about her mother, Jasmine knew the sultana had been an amazing woman who had inspired him to be a better ruler. Loosening the juvenile crime laws was only one of the things he had done because of her influence.

She wondered if her death had led to his complacency. Without her to advise and encourage him, had he become the way he was now? Or had he always been this way? She thought suddenly of Aladdin. What would happen if she herself died young and Aladdin was left to rule Agrabah on his own? Would he become like her father?

She didn't go further down that path as her younger self climbed out of bed and walked outside onto the balcony. She could hardly see over the balustrade, so she ducked down to look through the bars instead. Rajah sat silently beside her, having grown to about a third of his adult size at that point.

"I wish I could see more of the city," she told the tiger. "If the walls were closer, I'd throw some of my dolls over them for the poor kids to find. How many do you think are out there right now?"

The tiger merely purred in response and nuzzled her shoulder. She stroked his fur absently. "I wonder if any of them have a tiger too."

Jasmine walked back inside instead of continuing to watch, made uncomfortable by her childhood ignorance. Sand began to sweep the room as soon as she reached her bed. Just as it had been the last time, the quicksand seemed to physically draw the memory from her brain with a spear of pain.

She stood up slowly from where the sand had deposited her, now having lost two memories. She was in the middle of a crowded marketplace, and she looked around anxiously, trying to find a boy with curly black hair. She was pressed in on all sides, hardly able to see the ground. It was nearly impossible to spot a small child.

But somehow her eye caught something strange. A single pear was hovering in the air above a massive pile of fruit on a cart, and quickly floated out of the vendor's range of sight and around the nearest corner. She followed it cautiously into a narrow alley littered with garbage.

The sight that greeted her made her pause at length. Mozenrath sat leaning against the wall, his body much thinner than before, clad no longer in clean white robes but in a dirty brown smock. He had already devoured half of the fruit as the other occupants of the alley watched him with hungry eyes. Presumably, none of them could use magic.

Taral must have died, she thought sadly. If he were still alive, he surely would have found Mozenrath by now. But at least Sider hadn't found him yet.

Sider had said that Taral's spell wouldn't hide him for long, but it seemed a considerable amount of time had passed since he had escaped capture. She imagined he had been teleported to a foreign city where he knew no one and, as a seven year-old, could do nothing but beg or steal to survive. She stared quietly at his skinny frame, realizing that for all the scorn he showed Aladdin later in his life, he himself had at one point been a street rat.

A prince reduced to a street rat was very different from a boy born into poverty, however. She tried to imagine herself at age seven being cast into the streets and forced to fend for herself. She would probably have starved to death or been kidnapped into a lifetime of brothel service.

"Can you get one for me?" an emaciated man rasped, dragging himself over to Mozenrath on his elbows. To her horror, she saw that both of his hands were missing. "Please, kid, I haven't eaten in days."

Mozenrath appeared unperturbed by the man. He seemed to consider for a moment and reluctantly agreed. He rose to his feet and peered around the corner, his gaze settling on the same cart he had stolen from before. He closed his eyes, his lips moving silently in a spell, then retreated back into the alley and waited. Several seconds later another pear floated into the alley and was quickly snatched out of the air by the crippled man. He brought it to his mouth with the tips of his arm stubs and took a ravenous bite.

"Thanks, kid, I owe you one."

"What do we have here?"

The man promptly dropped the fruit at the sound of the stern voice. Jasmine turned and saw three guards with swords drawn standing several meters away. The leader adjusted his turban fastidiously and looked down his nose at the pitiful-looking beggars before him. Mozenrath returned the guard's disdainful glance with a blank, guiltless expression.

"How did you get that fruit, thief?" the head guard said to the handless man.

A weary-looking teenager further back in the alley spoke up in a bitter voice. "If he's a thief, then he stole it, obviously."

The guard bristled and pointed his sword in the insolent youth's direction. "Shut your mouth, street trash. When I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you."

He looked down at the beggar once more. "I saw that pear float in thin air. Are you a magician?"

"Yeah, he loves performing for kids. You should come by every first day of the week for a spectacular show," the teenager spoke again, his voice thick with sarcasm.

The head guard gestured to one of his subordinates, who nodded with a grunt and walked toward the youth with his sword raised. Jasmine covered her mouth as the guard began lashing the young man with the flat of his blade. Were the guards on Agrabah's streets as cold-blooded like this?

"I'll ask you again, and you will give me an answer. You didn't get your ears removed along with your hands," the guard said testily. "Are you a magician?"

"N…no!" the man said, his eyes full of fear at the sight of the blade in front of his face. "I can't do magic without hands! It's him! It's this boy here!"

The guard turned his attention to the curly haired boy the man was frantically pointing at. Mozenrath's expression twitched in surprise at the betrayal.

"So you know magic," the guard stated.

Mozenrath nodded hesitantly. The head guard smiled easily—too easily—and ordered his other subordinate to bind the boy's hands.

"No!" Jasmine shouted. She was too angry to feel foolish as her words fell on ears that could not hear her. "He's just a boy. He's just a hungry boy."

"I won't cut off your hands, kid. You'll fetch a better price on the auction block fully intact."

Mozenrath rose to his feet immediately at the guard's statement but was struck down by a heavy fist.

"Don't bother trying to run," the guard nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just hurt a defenseless child.

The other guard had returned from beating the young man. He wiped his blade on the crippled beggar's clothes before leaving the alley with the other guards and their new prisoner.

They were going to sell him. The guards were as corrupt as they were cruel in this city. Jasmine followed them down several crowded streets until they stopped at a certain house with barred windows. The head guard knocked on the door and waited impatiently for someone to answer. A stern-looking woman opened it, her sharp eyes falling on the boy the guards had brought with them.

"Clean this kid up. He's of magic blood," the guard said curtly, shoving Mozenrath forward. "Ten thousand denarii at the least. Don't let him sell for any less."

He grabbed a handful of black curls and forcibly turned the boy's face around. "You give anyone trouble, boy, and I'll give up the sale so I can have the pleasure of chopping off your thieving little hands."

Jasmine glared in open hatred at the guard. She longed to know the name of this city, where men who were supposed to be the kingdom's defenders sold their fellow citizens into slavery and enjoyed tormenting the poor. At least she knew this place wasn't Agrabah, since slavery had been outlawed long ago by her grandfather.

She went inside and gasped at the sight of the first room they passed. It was packed with people of all ages with their hands and feet bound in chains, some of their bare backs crisscrossed with whip scars. She had never seen such hopelessness on human faces. They sat in silence, staring at nothing. It seemed they were all resigned to their fate as slaves.

The woman took Mozenrath to an enclosed courtyard where buckets of sand lined the rear wall. Her angular face was blank as she moved with merciless efficiency, starting to untie the rope around his wrists. "Once these are off, just remember what the guard said."

She pointed at the buckets of sand. "Clean yourself with those. You're going on the block in an hour."

He did not respond. She left him in the courtyard without a backward glance. Jasmine wondered how many children the woman had trafficked without feeling a drop of remorse.

Mozenrath looked into the buckets, and after a quick glance around him, he reached a hand inside. He withdrew a fistful of sand and let the granules run through his fingers as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

He opened his eyes with a frown and sat down heavily on the ground. Her face fell as he apparently gave up on whatever plan he had been considering.

After another minute of motionless silence, he stood up and stripped off his clothing. He methodically scoured his too-thin body with the sand and put the smock back on. Then he sat back against the wall, arms curled around his knees.

Jasmine sat down beside him, watching his expression slowly change from frustration to despair. He buried his face in his arms, one hand clutching his hair in a viselike grip.

"I wish I could help you," she said softly. It helped her to talk to him even though he could not sense her at all, and she simply could not keep silent through these memories without giving herself the semblance of involvement. "I'm sorry for what you've been through."

He raised his face slowly, propping his chin on his knees, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. Jasmine tried to pat his arm but could not feel anything as her hand made contact. Still, she moved closer and draped an arm around him, imagining that she could feel the shape of his thin shoulders.

"You can make it. I know you made it through somehow," she said, then paused. "And somewhere along the line you became the Lord of the Black Sand."

But at this age he was young and alone, a far cry from the dark sorcerer he would eventually become. He hadn't done anything wrong; he had only been the victim of forces greater than himself. Could she blame him for his current state of evil and all the horrible things he had done for the sake of power? She expected that Destane would determine his future for him, enslave him and force him through countless torturous lessons and exercises as his apprentice. But she was still unsure why such a powerful sorcerer had needed an apprentice in the first place.

In any case, it was too early to tell. She could not yet judge his future self based on the first eight years of his life. She could only sit beside him and feel utterly helpless.

In another few minutes the stern-looking woman returned and shackled his hands. Mozenrath continued to be silent. Jasmine wondered if the span of time he had spent living on the streets had effectively killed his talkative nature. He seemed a mere ghost of his earlier self in more ways than one.

The woman led him into the house again where he was chained together with a line of prisoners, most of them young adults. Several muscled men were standing guard, one brandishing a whip. Jasmine bristled as one of them carelessly fondled one of the girls being led out the front door, making a lewd comment to his fellows. The men laughed raucously and followed the despondent procession into the street.

The auction was held in a public square. Jasmine stayed close to Mozenrath on the raised platform as the slaves were lined up next to each other like criminals about to be hanged.

An overweight, balding man stood at the front of the platform and raised his hands to the gathering crowd, asking for quiet. He smiled broadly, revealing several gold teeth.

"Today is a good day for buying, my dear friends. We have several fine specimens freshly brought in from neighboring lands. Some exotic beauties born to fulfill your wildest fantasies; some strapping young males perfectly built for heavy labor; and even a bearer of magic blood for all you connoisseurs out there," he said in the most disgustingly theatrical voice Jasmine had ever heard. "Now let's get down to it, shall we? First—this lovely female from the hills of Lerba…"

The crowd grew larger as more passersby joined the auction to place bids or simply to watch. In his dramatic voice, the auctioneer played up all the physical features of every prisoner on the platform, presenting them to his audience as if he were selling cows and horses instead of people. Jasmine placed her hand gently on Mozenrath's arm, wanting nothing more than to set all of the prisoners free and throw the slavers in prison.

At last the boy's turn came, and the guard with the whip tugged him forward. The tall, scar-faced man smiled viciously as if challenging him to act up. Mozenrath's face remained impassive. Jasmine wondered how it was possible for such a young child to look so calm.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, here is a particularly fine specimen. Ah, he may not look like much at first glance, but appearances are indeed deceiving." The auctioneer paused for exaggerated effect. "We have a boy with magic blood running through his veins! A precocious magic user, as he will demonstrate for us right now."

The auctioneer drew an apple from his pocket and made a show of polishing it on his tunic. Then he held it out for the crowd to see, moving his arm in a slow arc until his hand pointed toward Mozenrath. "Before your very eyes, he will levitate this apple with his powers!"

Jasmine looked at Mozenrath again. His blank expression had turned into an open look of contempt, that trademark scowl of disdain that she and Aladdin had received so many times. He did not move.

The auctioneer's fake, appeasing grin twitched slightly as Mozenrath did not respond to his command. "Look at him focusing his power, ladies and gentlemen! The spell is a complicated one for a boy so young."

The man with the whip tensed, stretching the weapon out between his thick hands. He spoke in a dangerous whisper that only Mozenrath and Jasmine were close enough to hear. "Keep up the obstinacy, boy, and you'll go to your new master with a couple of beauty marks across your back."

The crowd was starting to mutter in discontent at the auctioneer, and Jasmine heard several accusations of fraud. The auctioneer's grin grew wider and more nervous as he tried to assure them that the spell just required more time.

"You might think this is funny, you little bastard," the tall man rasped in Mozenrath's ear. "But I don't think you'll enjoy my sense of humor."

He drew back his whip then, and Jasmine despaired that she could not shield him from the oncoming blow.

"Five thousand denarii!" a man's voice shouted from the crowd. The guard paused a split-second before he could bring the whip down on the boy's back. The auctioneer immediately began asking for higher bids, relieved that he could cover up his embarrassment over his botched command.

Jasmine scanned the crowd for the man who had spoken. She was certain she knew that voice…

"Five thousand, five thousand, is there anyone for six? Six thousand or higher?" the auctioneer spouted quickly.

"Six." A man in a gray cloak near the back raised his hand.

"We have a six! Going for six thousand, six thousand denarii now, anyone for more? Do I hear seven thousand?"

"Seven thousand," the first voice said again. Jasmine spotted him this time and froze in disbelief.

It was Thanon, Agrabah's historian. He stood in the middle of the crowd, his hair streaked with more gray than white. He was at least a decade younger.

She was unaware that during his tenure as historian, he still journeyed to other cities to buy slaves; she had always assumed his trips out of the kingdom were for research purposes. Now she felt a new sense of respect for the old man. He had never stopped enacting his father's will that he spend his own money on freeing the enslaved.

There had been no demonstration of magic, and most of the crowd was completely unconvinced that the boy was as special as the auctioneer so boldly claimed. But the auction was keeping them entertained as they watched the tight bidding contest. Most must have found it absurd that these two men were willing to waste money on a scrawny, disobedient child.

"Ten thousand, any higher than ten? Do I hear an eleven?"

Thanon's jaw was set firmly as he raised his hand. "Fifteen."

Her heart warmed at the historian's determination to win the bid and save the boy from a bleak future. Jasmine was praying fervently that he would succeed, though she knew that whatever good could come of this would ultimately be outweighed by Destane.

"Twenty," the cloaked stranger said easily.

"No," Jasmine whispered as Thanon's mouth tightened into a thin line. He did not raise his hand again.

The auctioneer's greasy smile had morphed into a crazed grin; the unscrupulous man was probably wondering how he had gotten so lucky.

"Twenty thousand denarii! Anyone for higher? Twenty one? Do I hear twenty one anywhere?" His voice cracked in nervous excitement. "Ten thousand denarii, going once, going twice…and sold to the man in the back!"

The man with the whip gave Mozenrath's chains a forceful tug as he led him off the platform. Jasmine followed hurriedly through the closely packed crowd and glanced at the side of Thanon's face. The historian's attention was already on the next slave on the auction block. She suddenly had to fight the urge to cry. He had been so close! So close to freeing Mozenrath and giving him a chance at a better life. Perhaps he could have even grown up in Agrabah. The historian would have made sure that such a uniquely gifted child would receive the best tutelage and preparation for a bright future.

The payment was made, and Mozenrath was handed over to his new master still shackled at the wrists. Jasmine tried to get a closer look at the stranger's face beneath his hood, but he turned briskly and beckoned the boy to follow. Mozenrath stood his ground for a moment before stumbling forward abruptly.

The boy's steps sped up until he caught up with the man. Jasmine was puzzled at his sudden obedience.

"I apologize for the use of force," the man said calmly, not sparing a backward glance at his young slave. "But you will learn that I hate inefficiency, especially in dealing with stubborn children."

Jasmine longed to see the man's face though her dread had grown tenfold at his offhand statement. 'Use of force' could mean nothing other than magic.

"I paid quite a hefty sum for you, child, in spite of the lack of a demonstration. The crowd back there no doubt thinks I am either an extravagantly rich pedophile or a complete madman for purchasing you," the man said as they walked down another crowded street. "But just as well; had you actually put on the magic, so to speak, the price on your head would have risen even higher."

"You can…sense my magic?" Mozenrath said warily. It was the first time she had heard him speak in this scene.

"Of course," the man said airily. "Even in your weak state, your aura is still quite prominent. I decided you had trudged through enough gutters in this useless city and proven enough of your worth for me to come find you."

Mozenrath jerked back instinctively, already knowing who his master was, but he was propelled forward once again by the spell the man had cast on him.

"Let me go," he said in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Now that's no way to talk to your master," the man replied in an equally level tone. "But I understand your sentiments. I will give you a choice for your future…after I have given you a sufficient understanding of who I am and what I may offer you. Until then, I'm afraid the stuffy old master-slave relationship holds."

He turned a corner onto a dark street and stopped at the first wooden door they came across. It creaked open with a light touch of his hand.

"Welcome, young prince, to my home."

The man held his arm out as if politely allowing the boy to enter first. Mozenrath stumbled through, his movements still controlled by the spell. Jasmine followed closely behind the two of them.

The door did not lead to the interior of a house, but to an open desert. They were standing in the midst of endless dunes of black sand.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The boy stumbled and fell in the sand, and Jasmine immediately rushed to his side. And then she saw that he had fallen on purpose, to gather sand in his still-manacled hands and cast the spell he had attempted in the courtyard. The sorcerer appeared not to notice, merely looking into the distance at the dead city and the Citadel on the high cliffs above it.

"I always enjoy peace and quiet here. Those things are rather nonexistent amidst the squalor of the eastern cities, hm?" he said conversationally, not looking back at the boy.

Mozenrath suddenly disappeared from sight, leaving only the imprint of his body in the sand. Jasmine felt a surge of pride that he had managed to cast his spell successfully this time, but she turned her attention to the sorcerer. Surely he had noticed…?

The man turned around casually, his tone still even. "You didn't answer my question, boy."

He snapped his fingers, and Mozenrath appeared again, dangling in midair by his shackles. He did not struggle, acknowledging he was caught.

"Simple teleportation spells don't work on my land," the sorcerer said. "And it is best that you don't try using the sand, as it has quite a life of its own. In another few seconds your body would have been trapped in interspatial no man's land forever."

He finally drew back his hood, revealing a startlingly handsome face with aristocratic features—strong cheekbones, defined jaw, straight nose, carefully groomed hair. He must have been in his fifties, as his close-cropped hair was mostly gray. The smooth, unmarred skin around his mouth creased in a smile that did not touch his clear blue eyes. Jasmine looked into them and shuddered; despite his refined appearance, something in his gaze was unnatural, almost inhuman.

"Not what you imagined the nasty evil sorcerer Destane to look like?" the man questioned in amusement, seeing Mozenrath's surprise. "Were you expecting an unhygienic, arthritic old man with only half his sanity left?"

He laughed. "Rest assured, young Morathai; Lord Destane of the Black Sand is indeed not what most imagine him to be. But I suppose the conventional image of me does work wonders in striking fear across the land."

With another snap of his fingers, Mozenrath tumbled unceremoniously to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet and glared at the sorcerer.

"What do you want with me?"

"I was thinking that having an apprentice would be nice, but a slave would be just as fitting, considering the attitude problem all you royal brats seem to have," Destane said lightly.

Jasmine was glad to see the young boy display more emotion than the blank slate he had been while he had lived on the streets. She silently cheered him on as he boldly confronted the sorcerer who had destroyed his home city. It seemed his dislike of being underestimated had not gone away.

"I won't be your apprentice or slave," he said firmly. "Ever."

It was bizarre. In Destane's cold sarcasm, she could hear shadows of the refined, scornful voice of the future Mozenrath. But at this age, Mozenrath sounded more like herself or Aladdin.

Destane merely laughed. "Let us continue this discussion in a more suitable environment, brave prince."

In an instant they were standing on the stone floor of a vast library, its walls high and expansive. Even the ceiling was filled with books that did not fall from their shelves, most likely suspended there by magic. Destane reclined comfortably in a large cushioned chair, and made a quick motion toward Mozenrath. The boy forcefully sat down on a wooden chair that had just appeared out of thin air.

"Welcome to my Citadel. When you are better behaved, I might allow you proper entry by the front door," Destane said, a flask appearing in his hand. He took a sip from it and smiled. "I imagine with your superior intellect which I have heard so much about, you must have guessed what this room's function is. And this serves as a nice lead-in to the discussion I had in mind."

Mozenrath opened his mouth to protest but was promptly silenced by a spell. He appeared unable to move more than a few inches on either side of his chair.

"This library houses knowledge of magic from the age of the Eight Deserts until the present day. Only here may you find the secrets of Athirias the Divine and Sonera the Whisperer, the forbidden magic harbored by renegade spirits, and gateways into worlds beyond this one. And this is but one room of my Citadel, child." He stopped at Mozenrath's unchanging scowl. He propped his chin on his knuckles, considering the boy. "Well, I suppose such things mean nothing to a self-righteous eight year-old acolyte of Helios. I will start again, then, by hearing you first. I can see that you will not listen to a word I say otherwise."

The silencing spell was broken, and Mozenrath immediately spoke. "Where are my parents?"

Destane's eyes widened mildly in surprise before settling back into their customary gaze of cold amusement. "You need a reconfirmation of what you already know? They're dead."

Mozenrath's face flushed in anger, but Jasmine could see the deep current of grief just beneath the surface; it must have been festering for months. "Why…how could you…"

"Because they were weak and in the way," Destane said with indifference. "What would I do, leave them alive so they could pester me on my land? I destroyed them for the same reason I destroyed your entire city—to eliminate the possibility of future inconvenience."

"But we didn't do anything to you!" he shouted.

"Morathai, regain your wits before I have to silence you again," Destane said, his annoyance now noticeable. "I never said you did anything. I wanted the power of the temple, and the best way was to take it by force. I was able to get what I wanted because I was powerful enough. If your parents and all their subjects had been stronger, then they would still be alive and well, and I would be dead or imprisoned. Simple."

"You had no right to come in and take the power of Helios," Mozenrath gritted out.

"You puzzle me, boy. Half of you remains a loyal son to parents who demoted you from the throne to a temple seat, and the other half remains a faithful acolyte of a god who has abandoned you. I'd thought that living on the streets for enough time would lead you to adopt a more practical mindset."

"No one abandoned me. You took it all away!"

"But if you clear your head for a minute, you will see that what I have to offer you is more than enough to make up for your losses." Destane said smoothly, continuing to speak as if he were dealing with an adult instead of a child.

"I don't want anything but to kill you," the boy said flatly, surprising Jasmine with his forceful words.

"That is quite a natural urge, but not quite wise to attempt," Destane responded, unfazed. "Of course, given time and tutelage, you might try your hand at it. But as I am the most powerful sorcerer in the land, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone to help you grow strong enough to fulfill that desire."

Mozenrath narrowed his eyes and said nothing, not having expected this twisted line of thought.

"The facts of your situation are simple. Your home city is gone; your parents and temple priests and all its citizens are dead. Your god is apparently deaf or completely indifferent, since he did nothing as his city was destroyed and the power in his temple was taken by a sorcerer of dark magic. And I imagine whatever prayers you might have prayed in the past several months have gone unanswered, given the pitiful condition in which I found you. Your old purpose in life is gone, boy; you will only be wasting your time trying to follow it. Why waste your life living for a past that is no longer there?"

"I was destined to serve Helios," Mozenrath said. "It was prophesied in my mother's dream."

"A prophetic dream. How quaint," the sorcerer replied. Once again the resemblance between Destane's voice and that of the adult Mozenrath was simply unnerving. "So because of a single dream, your parents gave you over to a temple when you could have ascended the throne instead. Had you been able to reason coherently as an infant, you probably would have chosen the latter, no? But by the time you were old enough to think, the idea of your miraculously revealed destiny had already been drilled into your head."

Destane shook his head in pity. "It always pains me to see brilliant minds brainwashed in such a way. They taught you that there was nothing better in life than to serve a vague unseen god, hm? Do you understand yet what I see about your life?"

"It is an honor to serve the Light."

"Morathai. Abandon the indoctrinated part of your mind for a moment and see things logically. It is the only way you can survive in this world whether you decide to accept my offer or not," Destane said patiently. "The truth is that the 'Light' or Helios or whatever you want to call it doesn't care for your service. If it did, then it would have saved you by now, wouldn't it? It would have protected the only city that worshipped it and it would have stopped its temple's power from falling into my hands. Can you offer a logical reason for its lack of intervention?"

Mozenrath stayed silent.

"I know you have doubted your god for a while, boy. Anyone with a shred of intelligence would. There is no shame in abandoning a ship that no longer floats. The longer you stay, the lower you'll sink. I'd say it's time for you to find your own way.

"And when I say this, I realize that it really is your first time finding a path for yourself, isn't it? Your life before now was always determined by the will of others, whether it was your parents, the high priest, your brothers in the order, or the slave traders from whom I purchased you. You were led along as a naïve, trusting child who knew no better. You are still a child, but now you know better. Sider told me—" Destane paused at the look on Mozenrath's face. "Oh, I suppose I should inform you that I disposed of him a while ago. He was no longer useful, and I was rather annoyed that he failed to capture you. Don't look so shocked, I have already told you that I value efficiency—or perhaps you are disappointed that you will not be able to kill him yourself? No matter. Where was I? Ah, yes. He told me that you were rather remarkable, quick to learn and master spells that students twice your age would have trouble performing. Your talents were wasted for the first few years of your life in that temple, but now you have the chance to develop them to their fullest potential."

Mozenrath was listening more calmly now; Jasmine could see him digesting Destane's words in methodical deliberation.

"You see, what really matters in life is power. With it, you may live and enjoy life and never fear that others will harm you or cause you any sort of inconvenience. Without it, you are nothing, a mere infant buffeted about by the waves. You are fortunate to learn this lesson so early in life. It will enable you to set your priorities properly. Your city is gone because I am more powerful and clever than all who lived there. You escaped only because you were fortunate, but there is the potential in you for unsurpassed greatness. I am willing to teach you, boy, and make you the most powerful sorcerer of your generation," Destane said. He leaned forward in his chair. "You can feel the magic in the very air of this place, can't you? You could feel it in the sand when you cast that teleportation spell, how easily it reacts to those of magic blood. It beckoned to you, did it not?"

Mozenrath shifted in seeming discomfort at the pointed question. The sorcerer smiled and leaned back once more. "Of course you heard its voice. There is no one of our kind who is immune to its call. There is only one place in this world that harbors such strong magic in its sands, and that is here. If you stay, you may learn to master it. Imagine an entire desert under your command, boy. A living desert full of sorcerous energy at your disposal.

"I am offering you the chance to learn from me as my apprentice and reach your potential. Or you may leave. It is your choice; an unwilling student is useless to me. If you do decide to leave, though, give careful thought to your probable fate. Your family and your kingdom are gone. The priest named Taral is dead along with all your brothers in the order. You will likely live on the streets scrounging and stealing as you have been since you escaped Helinth. A miserable life, isn't it? A powerless, wasted existence. Still, it is your choice."

He gestured with his hand, and a portal appeared beside them. It was the marketplace of the city they had just left, crowded with merchants and customers who were completely unaware of the onlookers at the Citadel.

"If you choose to walk through, I will not seek you out again. Perhaps you can look for the man whom I outbid at the auction. Judging from the fact that he saved you from the whip, I imagine he would treat you well and at least provide you with food and a roof over your head. Perhaps he'll even help you plot your revenge against me."

Jasmine trembled at the icy tone of his laughter. The whole situation grated mercilessly at her heart. She dreaded the moment Mozenrath would accept Destane's offer. It made it all the worse that Destane had actually mentioned Thanon. How different his life could have been…

"Why would you let me go free? Wouldn't it be easier to just kill me like you killed Sider?" Mozenrath asked warily.

"Ah, you are thinking at last. Good," Destane said in approval. "As I said before, I have no use for an unwilling student. Having to decide between apprenticeship and death isn't much of a choice, is it? I must ensure that if you decide to stay, it is because you truly want to. Otherwise it would be impossible to teach you."

"And what will you get out of teaching me?"

"You will undoubtedly be very useful to me, boy, with your unique strain of magic and the level of power you will attain in the future, along with the intellect you're finally displaying now. And I would enjoy a bit of company around here, as it is rather dull and lifeless in these parts."

He laughed almost functionally then, his eyes still mirthless. "Well? What will it be?"

"Don't say yes. Please don't," Jasmine whispered. She was actively in denial of what she knew to be true; Mozenrath would say yes and start on the path to his current state. But she wanted to imagine that Destane had forced him into a life of dark magic and a constant thirst for power. It would be so much easier to forgive him that way.

"My purpose won't be to serve you," Mozenrath said adamantly. "I won't let you use me."

"But that doesn't change the fact that _my_ purpose is to use you," Destane said. "In any case, why does it matter if you are able to grow powerful? Your purpose is to gain as much power and knowledge as you can as my apprentice."

"My purpose is to kill you."

Destane's laughter was genuine this time. He did not speak for a good ten seconds as he tried to calm himself. "Such bold, violent words from a child! What is society coming to?"

Then his expression lost all traces of humor. His inhuman gaze flashed dangerously. "It is good for you to have that goal. You will learn all the faster because of it. But if you want to kill me, make sure you can succeed before you try. Because if you fail, I will have no qualms about killing a student. Or rather, keeping you alive while you beg for death."

A hollow smile spread easily across his handsome face. "What is your choice, then, boy?"

Mozenrath raised his hand to the side and closed the portal to the marketplace with his own spell. "I'll fulfill my purpose," he said simply.

Destane's smile did not twitch at the child's cold words, as if he had fully expected everything to play out this way. "Well then, welcome to your new home. Oh, and one more thing: I was thinking of a new name for you, as 'Keeper of His power' no longer seems fitting. Why not simply 'Keeper of power'?"

"Mozenrath," the boy said, testing out the name. Hearing it from his lips for the first time chilled the blood in Jasmine's veins.

"It has a suitably sinister ring to it," Destane remarked. "Now, I imagine you are quite in need of nourishment…"

His voice faded as the sands began to swirl around her. She hung her head, quietly mourning the loss of the boy named Morathai. From now on he would be Destane's understudy, though he would never stop hating the man. He would even adopt his mentor's manner of speech. Jasmine still pitied him, but a thorn had embedded itself in her side. It had been his choice to stay, to learn from Destane and to grow powerful. Even though he had only been eight years of age then, he had been smart enough to know the implications of his decision. He wasn't just a product of his circumstances; he had free will, and had exercised it for the worse.

But if she had been in his place, would she have done any differently? If Destane had destroyed her entire kingdom and killed everyone she had loved, wouldn't she have sought revenge also? At least at this point Mozenrath was seeking power not for the sake of power itself, but in order to avenge his parents and city.

Revenge was always self-destructive, but he was too young to know that. She wondered when his desire for it would bleed into the thirst for world domination. He would eventually become just like Destane, the object of his hatred.

She entered her own memory still thinking heavily about Mozenrath's choice.

"Jasmine. Jasmine, open the door."

She was in her bedroom again, and her younger self was sitting in bed with Rajah curled beside her. In the moonlight Jasmine could see the glistening trails of tears on her face.

"No," she said, her voice cracking as she continued to cry. "Go away!"

Jasmine had to shake her head at herself. In all other kingdoms it was unheard of for a sultan to have to ask for permission to enter his own child's room. But her father had spoiled her to no end and was far more likely to give in to her demands than to demand anything of her.

"Don't cry, daughter. You can talk to me about what's wrong," came the sultan's voice from the hall.

"I don't want to talk to you!" she shouted. "Why don't you just go talk to Queen Cirra?"

There was a pregnant pause. "I have talked with the queen already, Jasmine. She would like to speak with you too. She's a very nice lady and cares for you. She would be a wonderful mother."

"I don't want her to be my mother! I want my own mother!"

Another lengthy silence. Jasmine shifted uncomfortably at the way the conversation was going. This had been the first time her father had tried to take a wife after Jasmine's mother had died. He had fallen in love with a queen from a distant land, and had traveled far to court her. But Jasmine had hated the idea of her father marrying another woman, even though she had never met her own mother.

"This doesn't mean I have forgotten your mother, dearest. But she's moved on to another place, and she wants us all to be happy. She would not be angry if I married Queen Cirra."

"You _are _forgetting her, Father! If you really loved her then you wouldn't marry anyone else! That's what love is!"

Jasmine moved away from the bed, greatly bothered by the immaturity of her younger self. She sat down quietly by the door so she could be closer to her father, whom she knew would soon acquiesce to his daughter's wishes.

The wood of the door muffled her father's sigh of resignation. "We'll talk more later, then. Sleep well, dearest."

As soon as she heard his footsteps retreating, the young princess climbed down from her bed and hurried to the door, opening it a crack to look outside. Jasmine followed her as she tiptoed down the hall in her nightclothes, sparing only one look backward to tell Rajah to stay in her room. The sultan was walking slowly a distance away with noticeably less poise than usual, the burden on his spirit seeming to age him by another ten years.

The girl followed him into the courtyard and hid behind a low wall. A beautiful woman was waiting for him at the fountain. She was decked in the royal finery of her city, gold mixed with warm earthy hues that complemented her bronze skin. She watched her father approach with concern in her deep brown eyes. The sultan met her gaze with sadness.

"I am sorry, my love. My daughter still will not see you tonight," he said. He paused and drew in a breath. "Nor any other time."

The elegant queen sat down quietly on the edge of the fountain and brushed the surface of the water with her fingers. "Never?"

"My daughter is a stubborn child, Cirra. But I love her very much," the sultan said, sitting beside her.

"I know."

Jasmine wondered which statement the queen was agreeing to.

"So now what?" she asked softly, not lifting her eyes from the water.

Her father's expression was clearly pained. "This does not change my love for you. But I…I cannot ask for your hand. It would do too much harm to my daughter."

The queen nodded slowly, still swirling the water with her hand. Her beautiful features remained blank. "So then it ends here. Because of your daughter."

"I am sorry, Cirra—"

"I would bear you sons. Heirs to defend and strengthen your kingdom, to allow you to rest secure regarding the future of Agrabah. Your daughter will not rule the kingdom, nor will she continue your legacy. Why do you bow to her every whim? She is a mere child, and I am a woman." The queen's voice was hard, her bitterness beginning to surface.

The sultan had no answer. It pained Jasmine to see him stutter and plead for his beloved's forgiveness. The proud queen stood and walked out of his reach when he tried to take her hand.

"For the past year I have seen that you are a good man with a kind heart. But now I see that you cannot be a good ruler because your heart is too soft. I fear for you if you do not change, especially with a daughter such as yours. I myself am a strong-willed woman, but my strength is for the wellbeing of my country. The strength of your daughter's will, if you continue to dote on her so, will destroy your kingdom one day. I am merely warning you before I take my leave."

She left her father in the courtyard, and she had never returned to Agrabah after that. The little girl crouched behind the wall stole a peek at her father, who was now sitting alone at the fountain. He sat there for a long time, not moving, only watching the ripples in the water.

Her younger self could not move either since she didn't want to risk being caught, so she stayed in her hiding place, ignorant of the gravity of the conversation that had just taken place. She was frowning crossly. Jasmine remembered what she had felt. She had focused only on how the queen had insulted her in the end, saying she would bring about Agrabah's destruction or something like that. How dare the queen say that about her! She was glad her father wasn't marrying a woman like that. She would have made a horrible mother.

Jasmine walked down to the fountain to sit beside her father. She had never seen him look so sad.

"I'm sorry," she said to deaf ears. "I'm sorry I was so selfish. I'm sorry for complaining so much against you. You're the best father I could ever ask for."

She tried to embrace him but again could feel only air. He stood wearily, oblivious to her presence, and walked back inside.

A moment later, her younger self crept out from her hiding place and stole back to her room, still ignorant of how fortunate she was to have a father who loved her more than he loved anyone else.

Jasmine stood alone in the courtyard as she began to lose the memory. Tears flowed down her cheeks only to be swallowed up by the sand. She did not want to forget this. Though it was painful to see, she needed it as a reminder of how ungrateful of a daughter she had been. Her father had given up so much for her. Had she ever made a sacrifice like that? Would she ever be willing to?

She lifted her face as the sand began to pull her downward, trying to blink back her tears.

_I'm sorry, Father. I won't forget what you've done for me._

The memory was siphoned away, but she was left with a feeling of indebtedness to her father. She didn't know why, but surmised she had just lost a memory involving him.

She blinked and felt tears trickle down her face. The memory must have been a very sad one. She could not recall many sad memories of her father; he had always had such an upbeat personality and had seldom been angry with her. Perhaps it was a good thing that the Mirror had taken a sad memory away, as it saved her the pain of remembering whatever had happened.

Her new surroundings were rather foreboding. She was in a small, dark room lit only by a few torches on the walls. The air was cold and stagnant, leaving her with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

A green spark lit the room for a brief second and then faded. She was standing beside Mozenrath, who was sitting at a desk covered with books and parchment. He seemed to have gained an inch or so of height, but not nearly enough weight. His naturally fair skin now had an unhealthy pallor to it, and his curly black hair had grown long, covering his shoulders.

She peered over his shoulder at the text he was reading, but found it to be totally unintelligible to her. The rest of the books were also written in languages she had never seen. She wondered abruptly just how intelligent Mozenrath was, if at this age he had had to master many different languages in addition to learning magic.

To her shock, he cut the back of his hand with a knife and quickly touched two fingers to the bleeding incision. His face betrayed no pain, merely an intense degree of concentration as he attempted a spell once again. Stretching out his bleeding hand, he chanted something in another language, pointing his two bloody fingers at his open palm.

A feeble green light formed in his hand, not nearly as strong as the earlier spark Jasmine had seen. He continued to chant, perhaps trying to strengthen it, but it waned and vanished. With a growl of frustration he slammed the book shut and stood from his chair. He touched the cut on his hand again, this time surrounding it with the soft yellow glow of a spell. The broken skin closed quickly, leaving behind a faint scar. He dipped his hands in a bowl of water to wash off the dried blood.

In two steps he reached his bed, a mattress covered by a plain gray sheet and blanket. His living conditions were indeed sparse considering the Citadel's vast size and Destane's apparent wealth.

He pulled his shirt over his head and folded it neatly before crawling tiredly into bed. Jasmine gasped in shock at the faded scars on his bare arms. The pale skin was covered with dozens of small lacerations.

If anything, she had expected him to bear scars from punishment inflicted by Destane. But apparently these scars were from his own practice. It was obvious he was very serious about his studies, too serious for his own health.

Without warning the torches went out, and Jasmine was left in the dark. She took several tentative steps forward until she reached the bed, and sat down on the mattress beside the boy. He was facing away from her, his breaths already long and even. She sat still for a long time, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and her mind wandering through the possibilities of his life since the last memory.

She tried to imagine the magnitude of the losses he had sustained thus far, and found she could not. She had never lost anyone close to her and thus had no concept of grief over a loved one's passing. Nor had she left her home city for any extended period of time; she had spent almost her entire life within the comfort of the palace walls. To see her entire city destroyed and her people wiped out, and to lose her father, all before the age of ten, and then to have to live on the streets without anyone to turn to…

She watched the boy sleep, wondering if she should keep dwelling on his early childhood like this when he was already well into another phase of his life. Did she pity him too much? At what age would he be considered accountable for his decisions and actions? She surely could not excuse all his evil deeds as an adult on the basis of his childhood. She just didn't know where the line was.

It was unclear how long she sat there in silence, absently stroking his hair as he slept. Again, the passage of time within the Mirror was hard to gauge.

At some point he awoke, and Jasmine watched him begin his day in an extremely systematic fashion. She turned away self-consciously as he dressed and went into another room for more private business, returning quickly to tidy his bed and rearrange the desk he had left in a haphazard clutter the night before. She smiled for the first time in a long while as he ran a comb through his hair; it was both funny and unsettling that she could observe his life at such a personal level. It would be interesting to know if this impressive degree of orderliness was an innate part of his character or if it was imposed by his master. Somehow she suspected the former. As an adult he always seemed quite obsessed with perfection in every area, including his appearance and his plans for conquest.

She followed him down the winding staircase leading away from his room and through several hallways and doors before losing all sense of direction in the vastness of the Citadel. Perhaps he had not learned to teleport without sand yet, or perhaps it took too much of his energy. She would not be surprised if the second were true, as he appeared rather malnourished. But Destane seemed to provide for him well enough in terms of attire. He was dressed in a neatly pressed dark blue tunic and pants, and his feet were covered in cloth shoes.

It was quite a bizarre experience to sit at a dining table with Mozenrath and Destane and watch them have breakfast. Destane still spoke with the same refined, aloof tone of voice and did not seem at all unpleasant, asking if the boy had slept well and whether there was anything he did not understand about the previous day's lesson. The whole scene was out of sync with Mozenrath's sickly appearance and Destane's record of atrocities.

"How much did you sleep?" Destane said nonchalantly. It was strange; it seemed he had already asked enough about Mozenrath's night. But Jasmine saw in his eyes a purposeful sharpness which had not been there before, and she knew that the question was somehow of importance this time around.

The boy did not flinch under that piercing gaze. "Eight hours."

She was unable to measure the passing of time in these memories, but it was obvious even to her that Mozenrath was lying. The sorcerer's agreeable countenance seemed false all of a sudden, though none of his physical features had changed. "Oh really?"

Jasmine braced herself, expecting the real Destane to reveal himself any second—a malicious, domineering master who liked to punish his student for oversleeping and not working hard enough. But Destane knew that the boy actually hadn't overslept; why would he punish him? Or rather, why would Mozenrath push the number upward instead of downward?

"Three filling meals a day mean nothing if you do not sleep, boy," the sorcerer said tensely. "How many times must I tell you?"

Mozenrath did not answer. To his credit, he did not break his gaze from his master's.

"I had arranged an important assignment for you today. But it seems you will be too weak to handle it. Your obstinacy is a detriment to my work as well, young fool," Destane snapped.

Mozenrath's indifferent attitude had disappeared with the first sentence his mentor had spoken. "What assignment?"

"It is pointless to tell you because you are too weak to accomplish it. I doubt you can channel any more power through your body in the pathetic state you're in. For all your intelligence, do you still not grasp the law of physical medium?"

"I understand it," Mozenrath said.

"Then why do you keep trying to break it? Do you want to die?" Destane said curtly. "You must be patient in order to grow strong. A healthy physical state is of absolute importance for a sorcerer. Your body is the only channel you have for the energy from your soul."

This was truly bizarre. Destane was the one trying to persuade Mozenrath to take care of himself, while Mozenrath was causing his own suffering. He had engrossed himself in his studies beyond what his mentor expected or wanted.

"What is the assignment?" Mozenrath asked again.

Destane shook his head, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "What am I to do with you, boy? In the beginning I thought I might test out my torture spells on you for misbehaving, but it seems now that you'd suffer more if I isolated you from magic altogether. How about I seal you away in a magicproof room for a week? You will only be able to eat and sleep, nothing else. Would that teach you to listen to me, insolent brat?"

The slow clenching and unclenching of his jaw made Mozenrath's annoyance obvious. But he did not provoke his teacher further. "I apologize. I will listen from now on."

"You will be forgiven when you follow through with that assertion. Now, if you have the strength and the stomach for it, we will go to the dungeons for your assignment."

In another instant they were suddenly in a very dark place. A horrible stench assaulted Jasmine's nostrils, making her gag. Destane and Mozenrath seemed unaffected, though the boy's frown had grown more severe. She followed them down a corridor dimly lit by torches that burned blue. The stone walls were damp and musty, adding to the feel of decay that permeated the air.

They reached a thick wooden door that creaked open at Destane's touch. Beyond it was one of the most disturbing scenes Jasmine had ever laid eyes upon.

There had to be at least two hundred prisoners locked in the cells that lined the walls as far as she could see. Most of them were near death, lying prostrate on the stone floor, the chains around their skeletal wrists no longer necessary to restrain them. Their bodies had been reduced to skin stretched thinly over bones, their hollow, ghostly faces gazing silently in the direction of the Lord of the Black Sand and his apprentice.

Destane was a monster. There was no questioning that.

She had seen him kill the citizens of Helinth without mercy. But now she was seeing the other side of the horrors he was capable of—keeping people alive in this wretched state.

"Mozenrath," she pleaded quietly, uselessly. "You have to leave. You can't stay here with him. You can't…"

She watched the boy, desperately hoping that he would show some inkling of compassion toward the masses of prisoners. But she found that he was not looking at them at all. His gaze was focused straight ahead at his master's back as they walked past dozens of cells of dying men.

"Water…please…" rasped a voice on their right. Bony fingers reached through the bars and tugged at Mozenrath's tunic. Jasmine held her breath as the boy paused and turned toward the man who had dared to speak while Destane continued on, completely ignoring the interruption. Mozenrath's eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion, and she prayed he would show the prisoner some degree of mercy. Or was he already too far gone under Destane's tutelage?

"Please…" the man begged, his hand trembling, hardly able to keep his grip on Mozenrath's clothing. The boy still did not meet the man's eyes, stealing a glance instead in his master's direction.

"Mozenrath," Destane called calmly over his shoulder. He had stopped but did not turn around, patiently waiting for his student.

The boy gave his tunic a sharp tug, breaking the man's feeble grip, and continued forward without looking back.

"A prisoner requested water," the sorcerer said, turning around just enough to see his student's face. "Aren't you going to answer him?"

Jasmine felt a wave of utter hatred rise within her as she glared at the tall, arrogant man standing with total indifference in the midst of the many victims suffering under his hand. It wasn't enough for him to enjoy torture, but he had to pass his sick fancies on to his pupil.

Mozenrath looked pained for a second, then turned and raised one hand toward the middle of the corridor. Jasmine saw his lips move and his face grow paler as he silently cast some sort of spell.

A pail of water appeared exactly in the center of the corridor. Immediately the prisoners in the surrounding cells clawed their way forward, pressing their emaciated faces against the bars as they tried in vain to reach the pail with outstretched hands. It stood at least a foot out of reach on either side. Their collective groans and cries of thirst cut deep into Jasmine's heart.

Mozenrath's face was expressionless as Destane gave him a smile of approval. "You are most delightfully inventive. Very good."

Mozenrath said nothing as they walked on. Jasmine stared at him. But she had no time to think on what he had just done as they entered a room that was pitch-black and reeked even more strongly of death. Destane closed the door behind them and snapped his fingers. The room lit up instantly, though Jasmine could not see where the light was coming from.

She felt her blood run cold. The floor before them was lined with corpses.

Mozenrath's face twitched slightly, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion.

"I'm not practicing torture again," he said calmly.

Destane chuckled. "Right. It seems you are capable of torturing live subjects at this point. But that is not the purpose of your assignment today."

Before she could even think over that sickening revelation, she had to shield her eyes from the bright light suddenly issuing forth from Destane's hand. It was a small bottle containing some type of energy.

She saw the utter entrancement in Mozenrath's dark irises, now tinted an unnatural gold by the piercing light from the bottle.

"Yes. Here it is, boy. I told you that you'd see it again someday," Destane said in a self-satisfied tone. "And today you will be able to touch it with your own hands, channel it through your senses, make it your own. The temple elders would never have allowed you to go near it until you came of age. But why hold you back from what you are already capable of mastering?"

Mozenrath could not seem to break his gaze from the encapsulated magic of his city, having been separated from it for at least two years, judging from how much older he appeared now. "What are you going to do with it?" he asked softly.

"Oh, nothing too outrageous. Just create an army," Destane said nonchalantly. He grinned at the look of wary puzzlement on his student's face. "We'll start with these eight soldiers here."

Mozenrath glanced at the pallid corpses distastefully. "What are you talking about? They're dead."

"Who said they had to be alive?" the sorcerer said with a chilling gleam in his eye. He held the glowing bottle at arm's length as if to admire it. "The magic of Helinth will raise them in service to me."

Jasmine caught the flash of unadulterated hatred that passed through Mozenrath's eyes at that moment. If Destane had noticed, he didn't care.

"Many sorcerers have succeeded in raising the dead, but often with limited benefit, since the bodies rot rather quickly and are poor containers for possessive spirits. Quite a waste of time and energy to make undead servants, as the summoning of spirits from the underworld is quite a painstaking process. But with the power of Helinth, my soldiers will not decay for years. And I need not summon any spirits, as the black sand is enough to give them life.

"Your assignment is to channel this magic into these bodies while I perform the more delicate part of the operation. With the sand, I will breathe a consciousness of sorts into their soul cavities, a consciousness wholly subjugated to my will. If all goes smoothly, they will awaken as the first of my army," Destane said with gleeful anticipation.

Mozenrath stood rigid and unmoving, no longer bothering to hide his disgust toward his master. Destane's grin only grew wider.

"Got cold feet all of a sudden? I suppose there's still a bit of religion in you; it does tend to linger like the stench of expiry sometimes. Come now, boy, this magic is merely power. It is only as holy as its wielder," he said with an unsavory laugh.

"You can't wield it yourself, is that it?" Mozenrath said levelly. "You need me to do it."

Destane's handsome smile suddenly grew sinister. "My, how adept you are at scouring for my weaknesses. You are right, my vengeful little apprentice. You are essential for this task. Therefore this isn't an optional assignment. It's compulsory."

From the tone of his last two words, it was clear he would brook no disagreement. Though the boy's disgust was still obvious, he also displayed a reluctant respect for what his master could do to him if he refused to obey.

"Your old name is dead," Destane said, seeing that the boy still had made no move to take the proffered bottle. "You have no ties, no obligations to the silent, forgotten god you once served. And I'd say it's a bit too late to turn back now, isn't it, after you've been routinely dishonoring the dead for the past month?"

The scorn was plainly audible in his voice as he produced a much larger bottle filled with black sand in his other hand. "But the dead have no honor. They have nothing; they are like piles of rocks or sand, absent of any moral value. They can, however, be of practical use."

"Then the prisoners in the dungeons…" the boy began.

"Ah, let's not jump too far ahead. Focus that overactive mind of yours just within this room for now," Destane said. "This is your most important assignment yet. It is also the most difficult. Listen carefully to my instructions."

Jasmine moved as far away as she could from the corpses as Destane methodically detailed the process the boy would have to follow. She slowly slid down against the wall and sat on the cold floor, hugging her sides and growing more nauseous by the second. Accompanying the revulsion she felt was the mounting fear of seeing the dead rise. No matter how many times she had fought Mamluks, she still shuddered whenever she encountered them. The thought that they were once ordinary people could never dislodge itself from her mind, even in the midst of battle as she and Aladdin dismembered them like poorly sewn rag dolls.

Mozenrath knelt by the first corpse and placed his glowing hands on the shriveled skin of its bare chest. The small round bottle of Helinth's magic lay empty on its side next to him. Destane uncorked the bottle of black sand, which immediately flowed outward like a dark vapor. He raised one hand, and the meandering trail of sand began to encircle his wrist.

"More," he commanded. "It's not enough! Work faster, boy!"

She could see Mozenrath's hands trembling as he channeled more energy into the corpse, his face tightly screwed in concentration. A faint glow spread across every inch of the cadaver, coloring its pale skin a light shade of yellow.

"Hold it. Hold it!" Destane snapped. With a sharp gesture of his arm, the sand uncoiled itself from his hand and rushed downward in a torrent, flowing into the mouth and nostrils of the dead man.

Mozenrath's thin shoulders were heaving with exertion now as he struggled to sustain the healing spell. Destane's lip curled in contempt toward his student as he began chanting a long spell in a guttural tongue Jasmine did not recognize. The even glow that covered the corpse seemed to pulsate under the power of his words. To her horror, its limbs began to twitch.

"I said hold it!" the sorcerer barked a split-second after Mozenrath began to cringe away. "Don't stop now!"

Her blood curdled as the corpse emitted a sound. She had heard it before, the low rasping groan of a Mamluk, but somehow hearing it here was all the more terrifying.

Mozenrath collapsed backward in terror and exhaustion as Destane commanded the reanimated corpse to rise to its feet, the glee in his voice bordering on maniacal. Jasmine almost retched at the sight of its half-decayed eyes now blinking, its sallow lips drooping as it faced its master. Mozenrath seemed to have frozen completely, staring up in horrid fascination at the vile thing he had helped bring to life.

"The first of my army of Mamluks," Destane crowed in triumph, stepping back to admire his work. "Above pain, above fear, above death. But you will bring all three upon any who dare to defy me!"

The crazed greed in his cackle carried an edge of madness. Jasmine had sometimes questioned Mozenrath's sanity whenever he had gone off on his rants about conquest, but Destane's rants were of a different quality altogether. He was definitely not as sane as he claimed to be.

He turned toward his student with a terribly hollow grin. "It is quite disappointing that you are too weak to raise the other seven corpses I had prepared for today. But I've thought of a suitable punishment for you. You have trouble falling asleep, no? This new servant of mine might be able to help you."

Mozenrath scrambled to his feet too late as Destane swept his hand in an arc and disappeared in a flash of dark fire, leaving the boy with the cadavers, one of which was steadily advancing on him.

Destane's disembodied laughter echoed around the room as Mozenrath backed away cautiously from the Mamluk, almost tripping over one of the corpses on the floor.

_A test of strength. Or maybe endurance. Depleted of magic, how will you defend yourself?_ The sorcerer's voice sounded, followed by a curt chuckle. _I have commanded it to attack only until you are unconscious. So don't worry about dying just yet._

Jasmine ran to the boy's side as the Mamluk stumbled forward, steeling herself against the hollow stare of its bleached face. Mozenrath looked grim, knowing there were no desirable options open to him. He shifted his feet slightly, ready to run.

At that moment the sand began to return, steadily pouring between the stones in the surrounding walls and flowing over the cadavers on the floor. It swirled around the shambling undead body and the limp arm it was stretching toward the boy, tendrils of sand washing across her vision and clouding her senses. The last thing she saw was Mozenrath making a futile dash for the door.

Her hands curled into fists in impotent fury toward the boy's master. He had certainly done his job in beating weakness out of his student. In the process he had beaten out compassion and conscience as well.

It would be easy, just too easy, to blame everything on Destane.

Jasmine took a calming breath. Mozenrath had of course survived his first encounter with a Mamluk, even if he had come out of it unconscious and psychologically scarred. That episode was probably a small blip in his long years under the evil sorcerer's tutelage. Destane was indeed to blame for putting the boy beyond what any child, any person should have to go through. But it was all part and parcel of what Mozenrath had agreed to in the very beginning when he had closed the portal to the marketplace and decided on revenge instead of freedom.

But he had only been eight years old then.

She was thinking in circles and getting nowhere. As the sand finally retreated, she forced herself to focus on her own memory. She was standing inside the palace, in a room where she had often played as a child. Boxes and shelves of her toys and books were arranged neatly against two walls. A large gilded cage hung from the ceiling, full of exotic birds of all shapes and sizes. In the corner there was a pit full of cushions where she had routinely hidden from her tutors and her father.

Her younger self was standing alone in a corner with an angry pout. She was upset because her playmates were excluding her. In the opposite corner sat three princesses from other kingdoms, all about her age at the time. They were consciously ignoring her as they played with her extensive collection of dolls.

"Oh, I wonder when my prince will come," a dark-skinned girl said in a singsong voice. Jasmine remembered her—Anah, from the kingdom of Staaris. She was running a small comb delicately through the long hair of the doll she held.

"He's my prince, not yours," another girl said, holding her doll next to Anah's as if the toys were talking to each other. Her name had slipped Jasmine's mind, though her round face and wide hazel eyes were familiar. "I'm more beautiful."

"Now now, we shouldn't fight," a brown-haired girl who was slightly older than the others said. Ilande from Liri. "It's not princess-like."

Anah sighed huffily. "You're right, princesses don't fight." She glanced meaningfully at the princess of Agrabah standing by herself near the doorway.

It was a deliberate barb, as all three of them thought Jasmine was weird for not wanting to play with dolls anymore. At that age she had been fascinated with the acrobats, fire-eaters, and sword dancers that often performed at the diplomatic functions she was allowed to attend. Most fascinating of all were the martial artists who, in her eyes, truly made an art out of fighting. She had constantly begged her father to let her take lessons, but he was strictly against the idea, fearing for her safety and beginning to worry about how he could marry off a daughter inclined to such unfeminine pursuits.

She was about nine at the time, and still without any friends besides Rajah. Her father often invited neighboring rulers to bring their children along with them on official visits with the hope that Jasmine could befriend other princesses. But it always ended up like this; she would be alienated by her playmates, seen as strange and improper, a princess only in name.

She hadn't seen these three princesses in years. To her knowledge, they had all been married off in traditional fashion to princes or nobles in neighboring kingdoms and had probably borne two or three children to their husbands already. It was not a route Jasmine had been willing to take.

She followed her younger self out of the room and noticed the angry tears still standing in her eyes. It hurt to be left out and misunderstood. She had felt so alone. Her father didn't understand her, though he loved her with all his heart. Her tutors along with the courtiers in the palace were kind to her but always kept an emotional distance as was proper for servants of the royal family. She had no mother to share her feelings with. She only had a tiger to listen to her, but he couldn't talk back.

"Princess Jasmine," a man's voice said behind her. "Where are you going?"

She turned and saw the king of Liri. He was a stoutly built man of average height, wearing the traditional leather armor of his city. Her father had said he had once been a champion wrestler in his youth, as athletic prowess was highly prized in his kingdom's culture. His meeting with her father must have just ended. He twirled his dark mustache contemplatively as he watched her blink back her tears and stare boldly back at him.

"I'm going to my room," she said simply. Jasmine had to shake her head at herself for her lack of manners.

"Don't you want to play with your friends? Ilande has been excited the whole past week about coming to Agrabah to play with you," he said, squatting down so he was at her face level.

"No she hasn't," Jasmine said bitterly. "Ilande and the others just want to play with dolls and other boring things. They don't want to try anything different."

The king cocked his head slightly in curiosity. "What do you have in mind instead then, little princess?"

"I want to learn magic," the girl said. Jasmine started in surprise; she hadn't remembered saying that. "Magic like eating fire and spitting it back out without burning your insides. Or maybe acrobatics so I can climb up walls and jump down from my balcony without getting hurt."

The king chuckled in his deep, gruff voice. "You are definitely…different."

He considered her stubborn expression for another second. "Your father must indeed have his hands full with you. Neither of us have sons, and while he is content with that, I am not. Though I love my daughter, I have always wished for a boy whom I could instruct in the arts of war and athletics. I see that you are more like the child I have wished for than most of the young princes I have met."

The girl wrinkled her nose. "But I'm not a boy!"

"Of course not, of course not!" the man backtracked hastily. Jasmine had to laugh at the scene. A grown man, a king in fact, who had once beaten men twice his size in wrestling tournaments was treading delicately around this mere slip of a girl. "You're a very beautiful young lady. But you've got spunk. I like it."

He scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. "What do you think of this idea," he said slowly. Her younger self perked up at the thought that someone might actually help her fulfill her dreams. "I will approach your father and try to convince him to let you take dance lessons. Don't frown at me until I've finished telling you my plan, dear. I'm not talking about normal dance, but sword dancing. It's a popular art in Liri, and I can send one of the best court performers to Agrabah to be your teacher."

He almost lost his balance as Jasmine threw her arms around his neck. "Hold on now, don't get too excited!" he said, patting her on the back gingerly. "I haven't talked to your father yet!"

Jasmine let go of his neck and stared at him sternly. "Don't tell him it's sword dancing! He'd never let me do it!"

"I know. I'll tell him it's just normal dancing, proper for princesses, how about that?" the king said with a conspiratorial grin.

"Yes! Thank you!" she exulted.

It was strange that the Mirror had selected this memory to filter away. What significance did it have?

She had secretly taken lessons in sword dancing for years. Her father had never found out until after the kingdom had been turned upside down by Jafar. The lessons had hardly taught her any combat skills, but she had tried to use the limited knowledge she had about swords against Jafar when he had enslaved the two of them. At the least, she had learned to be comfortable with sharp weapons. That was part of the reason she had been able to pick up hand-to-hand fighting so easily after she had met Aladdin and started taking lessons in martial arts, also in secret. But it had all started with the king of Liri and his kind offer to help her break free of the mold she was expected to conform to.

She half-listened to the rest of their conversation. Her younger self wanted to hear all about the king's adventures as a young man and how he had trained hard and practiced every day to become an excellent wrestler. He answered all her questions with a smile of poorly hidden amusement.

The other half of her mind was on Mozenrath and the memory she had just seen. She wanted to wring Destane's neck. If she had been in Mozenrath's shoes, she probably would have tried to kill him by then…and would have failed miserably.

Mozenrath had more patience than she thought, considering his thin temper as an adult. Or perhaps he was just more pragmatic than she was. Even as a child, he knew his limits and that he had to plan ahead instead of acting rashly.

But she still wanted to hurt Destane very, very much. He was kind or cruel as it suited him, in some ways like a father figure to his young apprentice, but in many other ways like an abusive tyrant. Leaving Mozenrath sapped of power at the mercy of an undead soldier was one of the cruelest things he could have thought of as punishment.

Or maybe not. Jasmine shuddered, not allowing her imagination to venture further.

Nothing else eventful would be happening in this memory. She didn't want to stick around to hear herself babble to the king, so she walked back into the playroom where the other girls were. Anah and the hazel-eyed girl were watching Ilande in mute trepidation, fixated on something she held in her hands. Jasmine moved closer to see what it was.

"The sand is coming," Ilande said in a hushed voice. Jasmine peered into her cupped palms, and a sudden chill spiked through her.

The girl was holding black sand.

A feeling of utter wrongness hit her like a blast of foul breath. This wasn't even part of her memory; her younger self was still outside the room talking with the king of Liri, unaware of what was going on among the other princesses.

Upon second glance, her heart calmed slightly. Ilande was merely holding ordinary soil from a potted plant. Jasmine sat down slowly behind Anah, the hairs on the back of her neck still standing up from the eeriness of the scene.

"The sand is coming to eat the little children," Ilande said in a soft, detached tone, sprinkling the dirt across the button-eyed rag dolls on the floor. "It's hungry."

"How can it be hungry? It's just sand," Anah retorted, but she could not keep the fear out of her voice.

"This sand is special. It's alive," Ilande replied knowingly. "It eats little princesses like us."

The hazel-eyed girl covered her ears. "Stop it! I'm going to have nightmares!"

"How do you know this sand's real, anyway?" Anah asked, still trying to sound brave. "I've never even heard of it. Baril hasn't either. Right, Baril?"

Baril—that was her name. The girl shook her head vigorously, her hands still clamped over her ears.

"My nanny tells me scary bedtime stories sometimes. She says there's a desert so dark that the sun doesn't dare to shine on it, so it's always night there. And she says the sand is like a living monster, looking for little children to eat. Especially princesses," Ilande said, her voice dropping lower. Her dark eyes glinted, and she suddenly looked straight at Jasmine.

"LIKE YOU!"

Jasmine fell backwards, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest as the piercing screams of Baril and Anah cut through the air. Ilande was laughing, pointing at Anah, who had started to cry.

It was okay.

It was okay; Anah had been the real target of Ilande's cruel joke. Jasmine had simply been sitting too close to the poor girl.

Jasmine stood quickly and backed away from the group of girls, deeply disturbed by Ilande's dark sense of humor. And then the color and sound of her surroundings began to fade to the earthy tone of sand.

But as the sand returned, pouring over the floor of the playroom and all the toys scattered around it, the tone of the young princess' singsong laughter began to change.

It became the androgynous voice of the Mirror, now no longer calm and neutral, but gleefully malevolent.

Jasmine wrenched her gaze from Ilande's face as she suddenly seemed a mere puppet of a much greater force. A decidedly sinister force.

With a chill she realized she had never questioned the origins of the Mirror, or even the kind of magic that enchanted it. The sense of dread roiling in the pit of her stomach began to spread through the rest of her at a rapid pace. She had been a fool. Eberzin had lost his sanity and wholeness of spirit to dark magic; what had made her think it was safe to listen to him after Thanon had plainly told her he was mad? The historian had also warned her about the dangers of experimenting in such evil arts herself, but she had dismissed his warning with the assertion that she had no interest in pursuing dark magic.

But if the Mirror were an instrument of the dark craft as she now suspected, then she was literally in over her head in danger.

She had been a fool not to have asked Eberzin more about the Mirror. If it were imbued with dark magic, then she had almost certainly thrown herself into a nightmare the moment she had touched its surface. A nightmare within an endless pit of sand.

The now disembodied laughter echoed on as the palace disappeared from sight, the sand wrapping around her body more and more tightly until she could hardly breathe. She desperately anticipated losing the memory this time, wanting to forget the sight of Princess Ilande's pretty face superimposed over the Mirror's malicious laughter as a silk veil over rotten teeth.

But there was no mental tear this time as she was dumped once again on the floor of the Citadel.

The Mirror didn't want her to forget that memory.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

She stood up shakily, trying to clear the disturbing sound of the Mirror's laughter from her mind. Should she leave now? Did she even have that option?

Before she could think on it more deeply, she was blinded by a green flash of light. She waited tensely for her vision to clear, and saw she was surrounded by bookshelves and cabinets on all four sides. A dozen tables covered with scrolls, flasks of liquid, and all sorts of laboratory apparatuses were arranged in neat rows in front of her. She saw Mozenrath, now probably at least eleven years of age, standing in the very back, a long scroll spread out on a table before him. He was still thin, but seemed stronger, no longer sickly and malnourished.

She watched him, intrigued, as he cupped a glowing green orb in his hands. His fingers were bloody.

It was the same spell he had attempted in the previous memory, but this time it seemed he was finally succeeding. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes riveted on the power he held as if one careless blink would extinguish it.

Perhaps…perhaps she would stay. To see the purpose of this spell that he had practiced for so long. After that, she would consider trying to leave.

He took several steps backward until he was about a meter away from the table. Then, with painstaking slowness, he moved his hands apart, still not daring to blink or shift any other part of his body. The green light began to float in midair, free of his hands, and showed no signs of fading. Its glow only intensified.

He spread his arms wide and the light began to stretch, flattening into the shape of a disc, growing longer and wider until it was large enough for a person to step through.

When his knees started to buckle from the physical strain of the spell, he uttered one word.

"Andraya."

The name was familiar, but she could not remember where she had heard it.

The disc of light rippled like the surface of a pond, and its edges began to swirl. Jasmine watched in fascination as beams of light shone forth from the disc and danced around the walls of the laboratory, their unnatural green tint reflected in Mozenrath's eyes. It seemed he was anxiously expecting something to emerge from the pool of light.

A minute passed and the light began to dim. The edges stopped swirling and the disc started to shrink. Mozenrath collapsed down on one knee, desperately trying to sustain the spell before the light could vanish.

"You need to know when to give up," the voice of his master sounded from behind her. Jasmine whirled and saw Destane casually leaning against another table, tendrils of smoke from his teleportation spell dissipating around his feet. He smiled nastily at the look of surprise and dismay on Mozenrath's face. "What, didn't expect me to be back so early?"

The green light had disappeared as soon as Mozenrath had caught sight of his master. He got to his feet slowly, his expression now sullenly defiant.

"I would have succeeded if you hadn't interrupted," he said crossly.

"Succeeded in what? Relinquishing your soul to the underworld? Inviting a demon to possess your body? Or maybe blowing a hole in my laboratory floor?" Destane mocked. "You don't seem to believe me when I say summoning spirits is risky business."

Mozenrath set his mouth in a tight line and did not respond.

Destane's voice grew more serious. "In terms of the technical part of things, that last attempt was nearly flawless. But I can tell you that no matter how well you master that spell, you will always fail."

Mozenrath still said nothing. Jasmine found it odd that he would just accept his teacher's criticisms without protest.

"I know what, or rather who, you are trying to summon," Destane said, his voice low and intent. "Have you not realized by now that her spirit will not respond to a dark mage such as yourself? Or do you still think you've got enough holiness in you to succeed?"

Destane smiled cruelly at the flush of resentment on his student's face. But Jasmine could see a haunted shadow of guilt underlying Mozenrath's anger.

"You cannot have the best of both worlds, boy. I thought you had come to terms with that a while ago, but apparently you haven't." Destane walked forward and glanced down at the scroll Mozenrath had spread out on the table. "Stop wasting your time. Even if you could summon her, do you think she'd still want to see you after all you've done? That she'd somehow be proud of you, the precious heir she dedicated to her god of Light, who now lives and breathes dark magic and uses the temple's power to raise conquering armies of the undead?"

He shook his head in mock pity. "I've always told you that power comes at a cost. You want the power to take your revenge one day? Then you have to pay the price," he said, baring his teeth in an unpleasant smile.

There was no answer Mozenrath could give to that. He had trapped himself in a paradox, having forsaken light magic in favor of darker crafts that lent him more power, all in the name of revenge for his parents and city. But in doing so, he had cut himself off from them forever.

Was this the true moment of his 'fall,' she wondered. The fall from light to darkness that was at the center of so many tales she had heard and read as a child. At this point it had to be obvious to him that taking revenge on Destane would not bring back his parents or his city. Vengeance was the precipice from which one could easily fall into a vicious cycle, a trap that made one believe causing more harm to others would somehow fill the emptiness inside that had initially been carved by the enemy.

But she was beginning to think there was no single moment, no definitive point in time where a person 'fell' from one side to the other.

People were not as simple as the paradigms from her childhood stories. Perhaps Mozenrath wasn't completely on one side or the other, not even as an adult. In the past two weeks she had seen the glimmer of something other than dark ambition and malice in him. She had debated whether his unexpectedly merciful actions toward her were just a clever ploy to manipulate her toward his ends. But now she was open to the possibility that within him there were still remnants of his childhood, the lessons he had learned and the kindness he had known in his home city.

She had to stay. She had to stay to find out whether her suppositions were true. There was so much more she had to see in order to understand how he had become the man he was today. And she was a long way off from seeing him formulate the supposedly invincible plan that had started her on this tortuous road in the first place.

So she would have to pay the price, then, as Destane had first told his apprentice, and Mozenrath had subsequently told her. The Mirror could frighten her, shock her, throw her into paranoia—she would bear it. If Mozenrath had been able to survive so many years under the hand of the most powerful dark sorcerer in the world, then she could survive one experience with an instrument of dark magic.

The sand returned as Destane finished lecturing Mozenrath and began pulling books off the shelves to teach him something else.

Predictably, she found herself in the palace once more. It was night, her bedroom lit only by the moonlight filtering through the windows. Her younger self hummed as she combed her hair, twirling in a slow circle in front of the mirror on her vanity. Jasmine leaned against the wall as she watched her eleven year old self at the end of another uneventful day. Compared to Mozenrath's life, hers was painfully mundane.

She set down the comb on her dresser and opened a drawer, seeming to hesitate for a second before she reached inside. There was a break in her wordless song as she stood still, perhaps listening to make sure no one was approaching her room.

Then she drew out two long blades from her dresser. They gleamed sharply in the moonlight, the handles studded with small emeralds.

Jasmine had been taking sword dancing lessons for over a year at that point. She could seldom find time to practice, since there were always servants hovering around her. The only free time she had was at night, when the only people nearby were the guards in the hall.

She wrapped the blades in thin cloths to prevent them from making any whistling sound, and began her dance in silence.

Jasmine had to admit she had been pretty talented at that age. She made scarcely any noise as she twirled and threw the swords again and again. Though there was no music accompanying her movements, she could sense the rhythm pulsing through each step and maneuver of her hands. Often she would pause and repeat certain motions with a determined frown on her face.

This was not a memory that was important to her, and as far as she knew, there was nothing much left to see of this night. Her younger self would soon tire of dancing and go to bed. Jasmine turned and headed for the door, hoping that she could exit this memory.

She paused as she reached it. It was already open a crack.

A distinct sense of unease seeped through her, as she knew someone was on the other side watching.

Just the guards, she reasoned. They were always there, usually half-asleep by now, but they stood watch outside her room every night.

But if the guards were there, they would not be so careless as to leave the door open. She took a cautious step forward, holding her breath even though she knew logically that no one could sense her presence here.

In the next second, her breath was stolen from her as her vision turned smoky black and her feet left the ground. She had no time to scream, dreading what the Mirror had in store for her this time.

Then suddenly she could feel the floor beneath her once more, and she could breathe and see. The room was tinted dark red by the strange coloring of the torches on the walls.

Jafar's laboratory.

She bristled and drew back instinctively as she saw him, the tall, sinister man clad in black who had deceived her father for years and tortured them both during his brief reign of terror. He stood with his back turned to her, tendrils of black smoke curling around his feet—the signs of a teleportation spell. It must have taken her along with him.

He had been outside her room. She shuddered and curled her lip in disgust. Why had he been watching her?

"Our little princess is indeed proving herself to be a great asset."

She jumped, thinking absurdly that he was talking to her. But the familiar squawk of a parrot relieved her fear.

"Why, 'cause she's got daddy spun around her little finger? Could she get him to quit it with the crackers?" Iago flapped his wings on his perch near Jafar's head, as insolent as ever. It was strange to see him as an enemy again after they had been friends for so long.

"She has taken on sword dancing without her father's knowledge," Jafar said thoughtfully. He sat down beside a long drawing table, now facing Jasmine.

"I wouldn't trust a woman with any kind of sharp object. What's she thinking?"

"Princesses don't think," Jafar said with a smile. "Especially not this one."

Jasmine narrowed her eyes. She had always hated that sycophantic smile.

"She rebels at every turn, refusing to follow proper convention. Imagine her behavior when her first suitor arrives…" he mused. "Imagine how much trouble she could give her father. How much of a distraction she could be. The sultan can hope to forge no alliances through his daughter's marriage. She is more likely to start a war than to maintain peace."

"All the better for us, right?"

"I must give it more thought. But it is indeed amusing to watch her."

How often had he watched her? The thought of the sinister wizard standing silently outside her bedroom each night made something inside her curdle.

"She is much easier to deal with than her mother."

Iago shifted on his perch and preened his scarlet feathers indifferently. "Come to think of it, you never told me what exactly happened to Mrs. Sultan."

"Ah, how careless of me. It was the first step in destabilizing the power structures of this kingdom. She was far too intelligent for a woman, and had far too much of an influence on her idiot of a husband," Jafar said casually.

"She fancy sharp objects too?"

"She almost revealed my plans to the sultan."

Iago whistled. "I'll take a wild guess and say you killed her?"

Jasmine's hands flew to her mouth. She had been told that her mother had died of an incurable illness.

Her hands were shaking against her lips. She bit her finger to check the surge of fury within her. She needed to hear his reply.

"'Kill' is such a strong word, Iago." The vizier's wicked smile widened.

Jasmine did not hear him speak again after that. The sands were swirling, turning the dark red tint of the laboratory to an earthy shade, sweeping over Jafar's long black robes and obscuring his evil smirk from view.

She was moving forward, fixated on the quickly disappearing visage of the sorcerer, fighting the pull of the sand this time with all her strength. His cruel laughter echoed around her.

He had killed her mother.

Her mother, who was too intelligent for him to allow her to live. Too dangerous of an obstacle to his plans to take over Agrabah. So he had found a way to engineer her death and rob her father of his true love, and Jasmine of a future with a loving, wise, and capable mother. And he was still laughing about it.

She lashed out with her arm, trying to reach the sorcerer's vanishing form, to rake her nails across his twisted face, to do something before the sand took her away. Rage propelled her forward, straining her muscles against immutable gravity, but even the fire that had seized her was not strong enough to resist the sand. Her scream of frustration was cut short by the sand that filled her mouth, suffocating her, dragging her downward.

The logical part of her knew that Jafar was dead, that this was a scene from the past and could not be changed. And she cursed the Mirror for showing it to her. She cursed it as the familiar tone of its voice wove seamlessly into Jafar's laughter, echoing within the granules of sand.

Of course it would let her keep this memory as well. But what was its purpose? To make her suffer? To throw her into bitterness?

The sand released its grip on her with seeming reluctance this time, as if savoring the tense fury coiled just beneath her skin. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly, reminding herself of her purpose here, that she would not leave the Mirror until she had accomplished what she had come for.

She would not let this inhuman object have victory over her.

When she opened her eyes, she was in the dining room of the Citadel, a vast room with a black crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Destane stood at the head of a long polished table covered with dozens of steaming dishes. Mozenrath, already in his teenage years, stood at his side.

Seeing him there jarred her out of her icy cage of hate.

Hatred was what Mozenrath lived for. And he had had to live with the object of his hate every day of his young life. She couldn't imagine having to stand in the shadow of her greatest enemy, to serve his every whim and remain silent throughout it all. Jasmine stared at him in disbelief mixed with respect.

How was it that he hadn't tried to kill Destane yet? How could he continue to stand so calmly beside him without trying to strangle him with his bare hands? If she were in his place, she would surely have tried to snap his neck within the first month, if not sooner.

But she knew the answer. Nothing had mattered more to him than his overarching goal of revenge, and he had subjugated everything under it, including any impulses to lash out before he grew powerful enough to accomplish his purpose. Despite the quick temper he displayed in encounters with her and Aladdin, he was actually more patient than anyone she knew. He had to be, or he would not have survived under Destane.

At the moment, his customary scowl was lined with confusion. She followed his gaze and noticed the three strangers already seated at the dining table.

They were children, one boy on the left and two girls on the right. The boy was dressed in a dark green tunic and pants, a royal insignia stitched onto the front of his vest. Long wavy brown hair framed a solemn, tanned face with quiet gray eyes and a narrow chin. He looked about Mozenrath's age. The girl farther from Jasmine was perhaps a year younger than him, clearly frightened by the situation she was in. She was pretty in a childlike way, the pearly white skin of her cherub cheeks flushed in agitation, her long-lashed eyes staring fearfully at the grinning sorcerer. She wore a light yellow frilled dress that complemented her flaxen hair. Jasmine guessed she was from one of the more northern cities. The dark-haired girl who sat closer to Destane was older, her beauty more mature. Clad in a long, high-collared black dress, she watched the sorcerer without expression, her deep midnight eyes shifting toward Mozenrath for a moment as if just noticing him.

"I was concerned you were getting a bit too antisocial, always shut up in this dreary Citadel with just me and my undead servants," Destane told Mozenrath conversationally, taking a seat in his elaborately carved chair. "So, my dear apprentice, I thought I'd add a little spice to your social life. I found some miniature royals to keep you company. I told them you'd play nice. You will, won't you?"

Mozenrath looked at his master with contempt. "What is the real meaning of this?" He glanced coolly at the three children whose attention was now on him. "Who are they?"

"Sit; let us talk over dinner before it grows cold," Destane said with a lackadaisical wave of his hand. Mozenrath watched his mentor warily for another moment before taking a seat on his left, next to the brown-haired boy.

"Now," the sorcerer said, pouring himself a glass of wine, "I suppose it's only proper for me to introduce our guests. The young man sitting beside you is Prince Xerxes from the kingdom of Galareon. The young lady there is Princess Laila from Mariste. And the lady dressed in black is Princess Raniye from Chyrilis. Xerxes, Laila, Raniye—this is my apprentice, Mozenrath, also of royal blood, though his kingdom met an unfortunate demise."

_Xerxes?_ Jasmine looked at the unassuming young prince incredulously as the image of an ugly mutant lamprey flashed through her mind.

She was already thinking far into the future, considering what could have possibly happened to these three children. She wondered if they were still alive; as far as she knew, Mozenrath lived by himself in his Citadel. Perhaps he would later name his eel familiar after the boy.

The barbed reminder of Mozenrath's lost heritage seemed to draw a reaction from all the children, not just Mozenrath, whose icy glare at that moment could have shattered glass. Xerxes' posture stiffened, while Raniye turned her gaze demurely away from the sorcerer's. Laila's lower lip trembled as if she were on the brink of tears.

"But you've left their kingdoms intact," Mozenrath remarked. He regained his composure quickly, his sudden anger smoothed over by a mask of placid indifference. His expressionless eyes swept across the three adolescents. "For the moment," he added with a cruel half-smile. "What have their parents agreed to?"

Destane looked pleased at Mozenrath's perceptiveness. "Oh, just modest tribute payments each month to help build up my army. The first shipment will arrive from Galareon next week and will be stored in the dungeons, awaiting your attention."

Mozenrath eyed him skeptically. "Galareon is too far away for the corpses to be fresh."

"Who said I asked for corpses?" Destane countered, smiling at Xerxes' paling face. "They'll be alive and healthy, probably slaves; can't get any fresher than that. I imagine that Mamluks made this way will be much more durable."

Laila let out a small sob of fear, while Raniye remained still as a stone, her eyes downcast.

"And you accepted _her_ as a down payment from Mariste?" Mozenrath questioned, glancing at the younger girl with scorn as she appeared to be on the edge of a complete breakdown. "Why?"

"For you, of course. I thought you fancied light-colored things," Destane quipped. Mozenrath scowled irritably, not appreciating the joke. In spite of her pity for the three royal children, Jasmine inwardly smiled at Mozenrath's discomfort.

So Destane was holding the children here as insurance against attack from the rulers of Galareon, Mariste, and Chyrilis, who must have been well aware that their cities could go the way of Helinth if they crossed him in any fashion. As for the tribute payments…she shuddered. Tribute in the form of human beings, brought to Destane's doorstep to be killed 'afresh' and made into Mamluks. It reminded her distinctly of a myth Thanon had once told her when she had requested a scary story as a child—a tale of a Greek king who kept a Minotaur in a labyrinth and sated its hunger with a yearly sacrifice of youths. The rulers of the three cities had effectively given their children over as hostages to such a monster, but still had to sacrifice more lives to keep the children from becoming appetizers themselves.

The cities could never break out of this paradigm, then. It was a lose-lose situation for them. If they refused to cooperate and give over their children, and the sorcerer would make short work of them with his undead army and a storm of black sand. If they appeased him, they would have to bend to all of his whims thereafter, as he could easily dispose of the children without a second thought. But then, the tribute payments would only add to his army, making it even more impossible for them to fight against him.

Jasmine now understood where Mozenrath had learned his powers of manipulation. Whenever she and Aladdin had gone up against him, his plans had always been carefully crafted in a way that they had no choice but to follow his wishes—except for the time she had dressed as a guard and completely humiliated him at Dagger Rock. Strangely, she felt no self-satisfaction as she remembered that victory. The question of what Mozenrath's life could have been like if he had not started on the road to revenge still weighed heavily on her mind. At this point he was on the cusp of adulthood, the age where wrong decisions could no longer be pegged on immaturity or ignorance.

Was he accountable for the immense hatred within his heart—the hatred Destane had sown and tended for years, beginning with the destruction of his city? Wasn't his desire for revenge justified? Didn't he have a right to it, even?

Thinking of Jafar, she felt another black wave of loathing sweep through her, answering her own question without words. Vengeance was the entry point to a cycle of evil. But to a person who desired it, that didn't matter. Everything else was irrelevant.

The meal began in a tense fashion as Destane urged the three children to eat and drink to their hearts' desire—as if they could possibly have an appetite after being taken as hostages and informed of the fate of the human tribute payments from their cities.

Mozenrath picked at his food, staying silent as his master chatted away at the four of them. Jasmine had observed his mannerisms enough to know that he was masking his true emotions. Beneath the impassive expression he had first learned to wear when he had lived on the streets, there was a sort of hidden intrigue, perhaps even excitement. She realized that in the past several years, he had probably had very little contact with any living people other than Destane and the dying prisoners in the dungeons. Even in his single-minded devotion to his studies, he must have felt at least a twinge of loneliness. In his childhood he had always been around many people, whether in the temple or on the streets of a foreign city. It must have been a jarring change to move to a dead place where he was one of two living beings in the entire surrounding desert.

He was somewhat similar to her in a way. Jasmine hadn't had any friends her age either, but that was because her peers had always excluded her. Mozenrath hadn't had any friends simply because there had been no one around for him to talk to.

But from this memory onward, maybe things would change. Jasmine already expected Mozenrath to grow close to Xerxes, close enough that he would later name his eel after him.

Sadly, that probably meant Prince Xerxes would die.

Destane was starting to ramble more and more as the meal wore on, no longer drinking from his glass but directly from the bottle. "You know, Mozenrath, I've been thinking about how to reward you for your improvements on my Mamluks." He smiled crookedly at Raniye, who was seated near his right. "Maybe I'll take you to visit Raniye's city sometime. It's quite something, isn't it, Princess?"

"It is as you say, my lord," she said quietly. She had hardly touched her plate, her hands now folded neatly in her lap.

"Indeed. I've never seen a city where beauty is more abundant. And I'm not talking about the architecture," Destane said. He eyed Mozenrath shrewdly. "When you're old enough, my dear apprentice, I'll have to find a woman for you from there." He laughed as the boy's pale skin flushed pink.

He reached toward Raniye's face with one hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Jasmine's stomach curdled at the sight.

"I wonder if your people will make pretty Mamluks, too," he mused, his sharp blue eyes watching Raniye's fair face intently. To her credit, she had not cringed at all from his touch, maintaining an emotionless mask similar to Mozenrath's. As the oldest among them, she had presumably received the most training in royal etiquette, which included being able to maintain a pretense of normality under duress.

The tension in the room eased minutely as Destane finally turned his gaze away from the princess. Jasmine noticed the slight breath of relief that escaped Raniye's full, rouged lips. Beside her, Laila looked plainly terrified, as if she would be next to receive the sorcerer's attentions.

"Mozenrath, why don't you show Xerxes and Laila to their rooms?" Destane said pleasantly. "Oh. That's right, I didn't tell you they were coming in the first place. Well, just find somewhere that won't be too harsh on their pampered royal dispositions. That probably rules out the dungeons, but I leave it to your judgment, trusty apprentice."

Mozenrath merely rolled his eyes while the boy and girl in question stiffened reflexively, no doubt wondering whether the sorcerer was really joking. He regarded them with a bored expression. "Are either of you allergic to anything? Embalming powder? Giant man-eating plants?"

Laila shook her head, too scared to differentiate sarcasm from seriousness. Xerxes, on the contrary, was quick to adapt. He returned Mozenrath's question with a disarming smile. "Only man-eating dogs. Plants are tolerable."

Mozenrath stared at him for a second as if recalibrating his estimate of his intelligence and, consequently, his worth. A slow smirk curved his lips—the possible beginning of a friendship between them, Jasmine thought. "I'll keep that in mind."

He turned back toward his master, and whatever additional thoughts he had been about to voice died silently at the sight of the older man leaning close to the Chyrilian princess and brushing her ear with his lips. His hand was entangled in her ebony hair as he drew her to him.

Without thinking, Jasmine swiped at his arm, only to feel nothing. How dare he touch her! Jasmine's fury was lined with anguish at the sight of tears glistening in the beautiful young girl's eyes and the dreadful knowledge of why Destane had ordered Mozenrath to find accommodations for the other two only.

Destane was a monster. How many times would that be affirmed before he would literally become one by Mozenrath's hand?

Mozenrath abruptly stood, breaking his gaze away from what was happening to the princess, and removed himself and the other two children from the room with a teleportation spell.

_You ran,_ Jasmine accused, although logically she knew he couldn't have helped her even if he had tried. She only saw the fading trail of his spell, evidence of his cowardice, his failure to stand up for what was right, as the sand returned.

The sand was blocking everything from sight once more, but the fury she felt inside overshadowed her vision even more than the thick granules swirling in her face. It was a fury tied closely to her own experience, a memory she longed for the Mirror of Fiereve to purge from her mind. The feel of Raeven's lips capturing hers, his hands caressing her waist—she cut off the image there, feeling unbearably filthy.

The mere thought of what Destane would do to Raniye—that night and perhaps many nights to come—while Mozenrath had just turned away and left...!

She forced herself to calm down and think rationally. Mozenrath hadn't stood up for the princess. But then, he hadn't stood up for the countless prisoners dying in the dungeons either. He hadn't stood up for the unseen masses that would soon be shipped here like cattle to be slaughtered—by his own hand, no less. He hadn't even shown sympathy or disgust when his master had told him about the tribute payments.

And he hadn't stood up for himself. In her mind's eye she saw him dashing for the door, tripping in his attempt to escape the living corpse Destane had ordered to beat him unconscious. He hadn't uttered a word of protest, only accepted his master's whims as law. Because Destane was simply too powerful.

Mozenrath's words from one of their nightly conversations, all of which seemed like distant memories now, sounded clearly in her mind. They were no longer such an enigma to her.

_Power comes at a cost._

She opened her eyes, ready to pay the Mirror's price, steeling herself to face whatever unsettling or plainly nightmarish scene that was in store for her next. Before the Mirror was through with her, perhaps she would pay with invaluable memories and her sanity. But she held fast to the thought that she was not the only one who knew suffering at the hands of evil.

"You better save that girl, Mozenrath," she whispered. "Whatever it costs you."


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The waves of sand around her were replaced by waves of water up to her waist. She yelped at the abrupt cold of liquid caressing her skin, and realized she was in the waterfall room in Raeven's palace. She immediately stiffened, dreading what sight awaited her if she looked toward the raised platform in the center of the room.

The merry laughter of children broke the tension slightly. She saw her younger self on one of the elevated ledges around the waterfalls, crouching low and laughing at something in the water. In another second a sizable wave hit her, drenching her clothing and leaving her spluttering. The young prince of Desrial surfaced then, grabbing her ankles and throwing her off balance. She toppled into the water with a clumsy splash and a scream.

Their age of innocence. There had been no bad blood between them at that point, just a bit of resentment on Jasmine's part that he had always underestimated her because she was a girl. But he had been a good friend. She did not smile as she watched her younger self try to scramble back onto a ledge, only to be dunked underwater by the Desrialite prince. Those days were long gone; she would not mind losing this memory. Raeven had turned all these memories to ashes the moment he had chosen to take advantage of her.

With a measure of fastidiousness she hoisted herself onto the center platform, patiently wringing out the baggy material of her pants. She had not let down her guard yet, as she expected each scene to be worse than the last now that she knew of the Mirror's evil nature. Letting her legs hang idly over the ledge, she stared at the rippling surface of the water, waiting for the scene to play out.

The sound of the waterfalls was somewhat soothing, a welcome relief after so many harrowing scenes. It took her a few seconds to notice that the children's laughter had stopped.

"Really touches the heart, doesn't it?"

She bristled and jumped to her feet, having instantly recognized that voice. But she was firmly pushed down again by two hands on her shoulders. She tried to keep a cool countenance even as he sat down beside her.

"Come now, let's just have a civilized chat, Jasmine. I'm not going to hurt you," Raeven said plaintively.

She refused to look at him, staring instead at the water below her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she could see he was dressed in the same blue and gold attire from the day she had visited Desrial.

"You can'thurt me. You're not real, only a product of this wretched Mirror," she said coldly.

He chuckled softly, his hands planted at his sides, making no further move to touch her. "I'm real enough, aren't I?"

She pursed her lips in annoyance. "What do you want?"

"Besides you, that is?"

"Shut up," she said viciously.

"Jasmine, it pains me to have you hate me, just because of one instance of wrongdoing on my part."

"You still don't regret it, though," she shot back. "And even if you did, I wouldn't forgive you."

She could see his wanton smile in her peripheral vision. "You have quite a heart for hate, don't you?"

His statement was unexpected. Perhaps in the past she would have denied it. But now…

She shut her eyes as images flitted across her mind. A magnificent kingdom and all its citizens overtaken by a plague of black sand, the blood of a noble queen staining the robes of an ambitious priest turned traitor, a young boy cowering before a risen corpse his master had turned against him, a beautiful young girl sitting silent and still as the vile lips of her captor murmured against her skin…

A royal vizier clad in black and crimson laughing carelessly as he recalled his murder of the sultana…

…a childhood friend slipping a drug into her drink and seducing her when he _knew _it was wrong, that she was engaged, that she was a person and not a doll…!

Her smile was devoid of warmth as she turned toward him. "Yes, I do."

She lashed out with one leg and hit him in the chest, throwing him onto his back on the platform. She swung her other leg over and stomped as hard as she could on his groin, aiming to immobilize him as she made a dash for the exit.

She didn't make it two steps before she was grabbed around the throat by a strong arm and forcefully drawn against his chest. Her hands instinctively grabbed at the forearm threatening to crush her windpipe, her eyes darting sideways to try to see him behind her.

She cringed in disgust as his voice, drawn down to a whisper, sounded right behind her ear. "I requested a civilized talk, dear. And mind you, I can't be hurt in this Mirror any more than you can." He laughed dryly. "Thank the gods for it too, otherwise I'd be in excruciating pain right now."

"What do you want?" she hissed.

"Just a little test," he said nonchalantly. His free hand grazed her abdomen, and she tensed like a wildcat cornered by a hunter. There wasn't enough room for her to avoid his touch. She could only tighten her grip around his forearm, digging her nails deep into his skin, though she knew he would not feel any pain.

"Get your hands off me—"

"A test of your limits, so to speak. Your threshold of hate," he continued, ignoring her command. "You've lived your life thinking you're the perfect heroine. Always the victim of unfair treatment, from your father, the law, princes from other kingdoms…never to blame for anything except perhaps being a bit spoiled."

"I'm not perfect," she said curtly. "But at least I'm better than you."

"Ah, but that's the attitude that paves the road to hell. You're always better than someone else, so you must be safe. A dangerous assumption to make."

"What are you getting at?"

"You will have a choice; either way will not be pleasant, and either way you will learn about your own capacity to hate. But you will decide for yourself which route suits your fancy."

"What does hatred have to do with anything?"

"Do good people hate, Jasmine?"

The question gave her pause. "Hate can be justified," she asserted.

"What about the virtues of forgiving and forgetting?"

"When the other person shows no remorse at all, there's no room for forgiveness," she said sharply, still trying to free herself from his grasp. No matter how hard she struggled, his arm would not budge.

"What about revenge, then? Is that justified as well?"

Again, she had to pause to consider. The answer was not so clear anymore.

"Stop playing around and just tell me the choices I have," she snapped.

He sighed, his breath brushing the sensitive skin behind her ear. "Very well."

He turned her around to face him with a quick jerk of his arm, holding down both her wrists by her sides so she could not strike at him with her fists. She saw that he indeed looked exactly as she remembered him from that day in Desrial, from his fine clothes to his neatly groomed hair.

"Forgive," he said simply, "or forget."

She stared at the guileless expression on his face. "What?"

"If you can find it in your heart to forgive me for what I did to you in this room, then you can leave this place without paying any other tolls. But if you won't, then you'll have to forget me—every memory you have of me until our last meeting in Desrial."

"How can I forgive you when you're not even sorry?" she said. "And you're not real anyway!"

"It's not a question of whether you can or can't, or whether I'm sorry or not," Raeven replied. "It all depends on whether you are willing to."

"And if I don't, then you'll be wiped from my mind?" she asked, growing less certain as she mulled over this bizarre turn of events. She had never expected the Mirror to present her with such a scenario, and she still wondered what its purpose was in goading her like this. Was it trying to guilt her into thinking she was a bad person?

"Yes. The only memory remaining will be my one sin against you."

She narrowed her eyes. He made his wrongdoing sound like a trifle, a careless error instead of the calculated evil it was.

"That 'one sin' is enough to justify an end to our friendship and all the memories it carries with it. I can't forgive you. Or I won't, whatever way you want to think of it."

Raeven's smile was hollow; she could not see regret, but there was no arrogance either. She stared defiantly back at him, not caring if he judged her.

"Goodbye, then, Jasmine," he said.

The form of the man before her faded and disappeared, leaving her hands free. She instinctively massaged her wrists, though they did not ache.

And then she almost lost her balance as a slew of images, smells, sights, and sounds bombarded her mind, colors blurring before her as myriad memories flitted across her vision.

She was standing beside her father in the vast throne room of their palace, watching a young brown-haired boy clad in blue and gold bow politely as he was introduced to her by his father, the proud sultan of Desrial.

She was leading him by the hand through the lush palace gardens, reassuring a wary Rajah that he was a friend, and ordered the boy to sit beside her at the fountain as she thought of a wish to make into the water.

She was standing on a high balcony at the end of that first day, watching the long train of caravans and horses carry her new friend back to his own kingdom, and she wondered when she would see him again.

About a year later, she was visiting Desrial for the first time, awed by the wealth and glamour of the city as Raeven led her on a carriage tour and gave her fine silk and jars of spices to take home with her when she left.

She was annoyed with him as he once again refused to play the game her way, asserting that she couldn't be the hero because she was a girl. She stopped talking to him that day, to his puzzlement, and though he apologized, she would not forgive him. On a later date, he finally agreed to let her be the adventurer, but he still apologized profusely after tripping her in a mock fight.

They were together in the waterfall room, trying to push each other into the water, paying no heed to the servants fretting that they would catch a cold. She was happy that day because he was finally trying to treat her as a peer and not a porcelain doll.

They were in her palace once again, dining alone together when she began complaining about the suitors her father wanted her to meet at such a young age; he had replied with a simple reminder that it was her duty as a princess, just as it was his duty as a prince to prepare to rule his people. She refused to accept that, and realized again that though they were friends, their different ways of thinking would forever be there to separate them.

She was standing in the procession at his father's funeral, her face covered in a dark veil, watching him solemnly take the mantle of authority over Desrial upon his young shoulders. Their eyes met then, and she realized that he was assuming his duty at a much younger age than she would fulfill hers, and he did not have a choice in the matter.

She was listening silently at her father's side as the new sultan of Desrial spoke with him about renewing a treaty, hardly paying any attention to her that day or any day afterward, still heavy with grief over his own father's death. There would be no more games of chivalry or adventures. He was the ruler of his own kingdom, and somehow the new manner in which he carried himself reminded her that she too had responsibilities to fulfill. It seemed to tell her to start acting like a princess instead of a child.

She was standing on the same high balcony where she had watched him leave the first day they had met. But now his train of caravans and horses had doubled in size, and his retreating form cast a longer shadow. She did not wonder when she would see him again.

There was silence as the scene faded, the images diluting in her mind like drops of colored rosewater diffusing in a fountain.

And then she heard Raeven's voice, the soft tone of a young boy.

_I'll miss you, Jasmine._

"Wait!" she called.

There was a pause as a sheet of gray covered her vision, and in the next moment all she saw was sand. She clutched her head as she felt the coarse granules filter through her thoughts, sealing each memory in an unbreakable shell like airtight sepulchers. The sudden explosion of pressure within her head drove her to her knees, swimming in pain she had never imagined could exist.

It was as if a cleaver were being driven through her head again and again, tearing apart the fabric of her mind as it erased all the images of the young prince she had called her friend. She cried out and bowed her head to the cool floor; she felt the pain of the quicksand a hundred times over, the loss of these memories leaving ragged holes in the wake of her choice.

Her breath came in shuddering gasps as she lay on the floor, not seeing or hearing anything but the jumbled currents of her thoughts and the erratic pounding of her heart. Raeven…the sultan of Desrial…the waterfall room…she could not remember anything about him except his practiced smile as he turned down her trade proposal, and the touch of his hands as he lay her down half-dazed on the cushioned floor. A wave of loathing swept through the fragmented mess of her mind, adding to the nausea roiling in her stomach. She did not notice the sand wrapping around the outside of her body until it constricted her limbs and lifted her from the coolness of the floor.

She screamed as she was suddenly falling through empty air, the sand already gone from her skin. In the next second her body struck a hard, rocky surface at an odd angle. To her alarm, she began to slide downward on her back, and she realized she had landed on some sort of slope. She planted her hands at her sides, trying to stop herself from skidding further, only to lose her grip to the pull of gravity.

Fighting the throbbing pain in her head, she flipped onto her stomach instead and clawed at rock and dirt with desperate fingers, trying to dig her feet into the slope. She slowed to a stop after several seconds, breathing hard with the adrenaline rush that had flooded her body, and found there was not even one scrape or bruise on her skin. She supposed the Mirror sought to damage her mind only.

And indeed it had. She put a hand to her head, feeling the aftereffects of the choice she had made. She saw Raeven's blank smile as he accepted her choice to forget him. Raeven, the sultan of Desrial who had unabashedly taken advantage of her, who had apologized to her for not asking for her hand in marriage, who had somehow fallen under Saleen's influence. How had they met? Had they been friends? Their fathers had been friends; that was why she had gone to Desrial to ask for his aid.

All other memories of him were gone, and there was no use trying to remember them. She just knew that she hated him.

A test of her capacity to hate, he had said. She wondered if she had passed it by choosing to forget rather than to forgive. His question had unsettled her slightly.

_Do good people hate?_

She shook her head, trying to refocus on her surroundings and orient herself after her fall. It was difficult to get her bearings and feel steady enough to move without slipping. She still felt as if her skull had been pierced by a spear, her mind as tattered as a tapestry full of holes. Just how much more trauma could it take before it broke apart?

"You better make sure Laila's out of my sight when we get back to the Citadel. Or I'll be making my youngest Mamluk yet."

She swallowed hard and shut her eyes at the sound of a familiar voice.

Mozenrath. She was here to witness his life, not to worry about her own.

She turned her head to the side, seeking out his voice, and saw him and Xerxes several meters off, climbing up the slope apparently without using magic. At the same time she took in the scenery around them; there were in the middle of a seemingly endless mountain range. Far below them there was dense forest, shrouded partly by mist. Above them was a hazy blue sky, the sun currently hidden behind clouds. It was bizarre to see the two boys outdoors, away from the gloom of the Citadel.

Xerxes, the fitter of the two, laughed as he climbed slightly ahead of Mozenrath. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. "She just made a mistake, it's not that big of a deal."

"A mistake that subjected us to nearly half a day of wandering in these godforsaken mountains! Even with her level of intelligence, she should have been able to read a simple map!" Mozenrath snapped in frustration. He was breathing hard, obviously unaccustomed to physical exertion. Jasmine wondered what kind of task this was that he wasn't using magic to make things easier.

"That's what you get for asking a girl for directions. Or ordering her around, rather," Xerxes said, his mellow voice devoid of any bitterness. He even sounded cheerful. "Come on, isn't it good to get some fresh air and be away from that decaying city? This is the first breath of freedom I've had in a long time."

"Don't deceive yourself," Mozenrath said sullenly.

The brown-haired prince looked back at him with a frown. "I know, I'm not really free. What's with you? Just because you're in a pissy mood doesn't mean everyone else has to be."

The expression on Mozenrath's face was identical to the one he wore whenever his plans were foiled by her or Aladdin. She almost expected to hear his familiar whine about unfairness in response to Xerxes' remark.

But she was genuinely glad for him. He wasn't alone with Destane anymore; he had a friend. That could make all the difference in a person's life.

Her smile fell then at the thought of Prince Xerxes' probable fate, and the fact that their friendship couldn't have changed Mozenrath that much for the better, considering his personality in adulthood.

Mozenrath didn't reply, to her surprise. But she supposed he hadn't yet matured to the level where he could master anyone in a debate and secure the last word on everything. Or maybe it was because he lost his smooth-talking ability whenever he was in a bad mood.

They climbed on for another few minutes in silence, Xerxes still slightly ahead. The boy was humming an upbeat tune, still seeming to find this trip out of the Land of the Black Sand immensely enjoyable. It was refreshing to see a boy like that. Someone who was unbroken by the gloom pervading his own circumstances. Or perhaps he hadn't lived with Destane long enough yet to understand how horrible life could be.

At some point he noticed Mozenrath was struggling to keep up. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and continued upward. Boosting himself onto a flat ledge, he stopped climbing and sat down, wiping his brow.

"I'm tired. Let's take a rest," he said simply.

Mozenrath looked at him with suspicion but did not protest, sitting down gratefully beside him.

The Galareone prince was clever, Jasmine realized. Clever in a good way. He seemed to know Mozenrath pretty well. It was obvious to both boys that Mozenrath was really the one who needed rest, but wouldn't have tolerated any mention of his weakness.

Xerxes took a flask from his pack and drank thirstily, spilling some water on his tunic. Mozenrath followed suit in a more reserved fashion. Wiping his mouth, Xerxes leaned forward and idly swung his legs back and forth over the ledge.

"My father used to take me climbing a lot. Galareon is hill country, as you know. It was usually tough on the way up, but the view was always worth it once we reached the top."

"We're not here for—" Mozenrath began.

"The view," Xerxes finished for him. "I know. We're here because we have to be, at the bidding of a mad sorcerer who likes tormenting his servants with tedious tasks. But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy some of it. At least he didn't send us into the heart of a volcano like last time."

"It also doesn't mean you should be so irritatingly optimistic about everything," Mozenrath said. "There's nothing enjoyable about this task at all. Being unable to use magic…to feel even an inkling of it in this place…"

His fists clenched at his sides. Jasmine noticed the dark circles under his eyes for the first time.

"We'll be out of here soon enough," Xerxes said. "You'll be able to feel your precious magic in another hour or two."

Even while resting, Mozenrath looked wearier than before. Was this what being separated from magic did to him? Whatever the reason he couldn't use magic here, it was appalling that it could have such a detrimental effect on him.

"When you can't have what you want, you just have to make the best out of what you have," Xerxes continued. Mozenrath looked at him skeptically. "I want to go home, be with my family, and not have any more people die because of me. But I can't have that, so I just enjoy what I can nowadays. Trips like this are a welcome relief."

"Or," Mozenrath cut in, "you can try getting what you want. Instead of saying you can't, you tell yourself you will."

"Oh yeah, I'll just go back to the Citadel tonight and submit a formal request to leave, and also ask Destane if he could please release my city from his control and never bother us again. I'm sure it's as simple as that," Xerxes said with a roll of his eyes. It was the first time Jasmine had heard him sound bitter.

"I didn't say it was simple," Mozenrath retorted. "Nothing worth gaining is that easy. But you can work for it. Figure out what you need to do and how much you need to sacrifice. And then do it."

Xerxes was the one to stay silent this time. He was noticeably deflated, staring at his feet instead of their surroundings.

"You know I won't ever be able to challenge Destane. I just miss my family, that's all. I'd be content with getting to talk to them more. Maybe visit them sometimes."

"Talking to them once a month isn't enough?" Mozenrath said with scorn. Jasmine did not miss the edge of envy beneath it.

"It's only for a minute. Enough for them to see my face and know I'm still alive. And then the portal snaps shut and that's it. I don't even get to touch them."

"Are you expecting pity from me or something?"

Xerxes returned his glare evenly. "Well, no, I guess not. You've been killing all the prisoners from my city without pity, anyway." It struck Jasmine just how close their friendship must have been for him to make such a bold comment.

"Killing is something you get used to," Mozenrath said, shrugging it off. "And death is a gift compared to the many inventive things I've learned to do to the living."

Their conversation trailed off after that, neither teenager looking at the other, but also not making a move to continue the climb.

"Destane keeps me and Raniye and Laila here against our will," Xerxes said finally. "But he doesn't force you to stay. Why haven't you run away?"

Mozenrath leaned back against the rock wall, his fingers absently turning the cork on his flask. "I made a vow that I intend to keep."

"A vow to stay here?" Xerxes mused. "It doesn't seem you take your vows that seriously, considering you once pledged to serve a god of light."

Mozenrath glanced at him sharply. "I never had a choice in that. It was decided for me at birth. The vow I'm speaking of is one that I made to myself, for myself."

"To kill Destane?"

Mozenrath's expression didn't change, but he was quiet for a second, seemingly weighing how he should answer. It occurred to Jasmine that though the two boys had probably known each other for about a year, Mozenrath might not have made his aspirations for revenge known to anyone.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Does he know you plan to kill him?"

"Of course he does."

"But he still lets you stay—"

"Because he doesn't think I'm a threat," he snapped. "Yet."

It obviously ruffled his pride to make such an admission. But Xerxes didn't seem to think anything of it; he only grew more inquisitive.

"So you want revenge on him because he destroyed your city." Xerxes paused, and accepted the lack of interruption from Mozenrath as an affirmation of his statement. "But why did he let you live?"

"He needs my magic. He can't create Mamluks without me. And he sends me to do his grunt work, like right now."

Xerxes smiled. "Well, at least you're not alone."

Mozenrath's eyes were no longer focused on his friend. He looked off into the distance, at the vast sprawl of green forest shrouded by mist below them. "I'm going to kill him one day, no doubt about it."

"I believe you can," Xerxes said without hesitation.

Mozenrath looked at the brown-haired boy with scorn. "I _know_ I can. It's only a matter of time until my power surpasses his. My intellect and level of sanity already do."

"I'll help you," Xerxes said. "I may not be that useful, but I'll do anything if it means getting rid of that man."

Mozenrath made a dismissive noise but didn't respond. Beneath his haughty expression, it seemed he was actually considering Xerxes' unconditional pledge of loyalty.

"We've rested long enough," he said abruptly, standing up and starting up the rock face once more. "I don't want to have to spend another night in the dungeons for returning late."

"You probably wouldn't have to," Xerxes said, climbing after him. "You're probably strong enough now that he couldn't force you to do something you didn't want to."

"I know that," Mozenrath said irritably. "But if I disobey now, it'll only hurt me. I need more time to learn and formulate an airtight plan. I'll just let him continue underestimating me until it's too late."

Xerxes climbed slightly behind Mozenrath now, watching him with admiration. He was so transparent and trusting. Jasmine was amazed that he had so easily befriended a dark sorcerer-in-training, especially one who routinely killed citizens from his kingdom. Mozenrath needed someone like that in his life. Someone who wasn't cold or manipulative, but loyal and selfless. At the same time, it left Xerxes wide open to manipulation by Mozenrath. It didn't seem the latter would have any qualms about using a friend for his own ends.

They continued to climb in silence for a while until they finally reached a cave a short distance below the peak of the mountain. Xerxes got there first, hauling himself onto flat ground with a sigh of relief. He turned and offered a hand to Mozenrath, who promptly brushed it aside and dragged himself into the cave on his own.

The two boys spent a few moments catching their breath and rehydrating. Then Mozenrath stood shakily, his muscles obviously aching from the long arduous climb, and walked further into the dark recesses of the cave.

She followed the two of them; it was obvious they were looking for something. Apparently they still could not use magic in this place; otherwise Mozenrath would surely have lit up the cave by now.

"Found one," Xerxes said, stooping down and plucking something from the ground. Jasmine peered more closely at his hand; he was holding what looked like a dried weed with grayish green leaves.

Mozenrath frowned, perhaps at the fact that Xerxes had found the plant before he had. He continued searching on his own and eventually found several patches of the strange plant growing near the back wall of the cave.

"To think, these bits of trash are the reason for the barrier here," he said in annoyance.

"They must not be completely worthless if Destane wants them."

"No, he just sent us all the way out here to humor us," Mozenrath said sarcastically. "Of course they're not worthless; the Iyaliv plant is an essential ingredient of a multitude of spells."

"I suppose we should pocket some of these, then?" Xerxes said, seemingly unbothered by Mozenrath's disdainful attitude. "Can this stuff cure my allergies to man-eating dogs?"

The corner of Mozenrath's mouth quirked up at the reminder of the dry joke he had made when the two had first met. They continued to gather the weeds side by side in the semi-darkness of the cave, filling their packs with them.

"What will you do after you overthrow Destane?" Xerxes asked quietly. "Will you destroy his domain?"

The question took her by surprise. She had never thought about the possibility of Mozenrath doing anything else but trying to conquer the world after he had his revenge. It appeared he hadn't expected the question either, even as he threw a condescending glance at his friend.

"You can't destroy the Land of the Black Sand. It's living magic."

Xerxes was unfazed by the scornful reply. "Then what are your plans?"

"I'll take over his domain. I'll gain authority over the black sand once I kill its current master. I have time to decide what else I'll do."

"Would you free us?" Xerxes said. "And all the cities Destane enslaved? You could do a lot of good with the power you'll have."

The question again caught him off guard. But he had become very, very good at hiding his emotions, and the only sign of his discomfort was a slight twitch of his lips before they curled in a familiar look of contempt.

"Good? With an army of the undead?"

Xerxes smiled wryly. "Magic is only as holy as its wielder, right?"

Mozenrath did not return his smile. "Those cities deserve what came to them, because they were weak enough to allow themselves to fall under Destane's power. They are undeserving of any mercy. As to you and the others, you could leave. Weak and powerless as you all are, you'd be of no use to me."

"Mozenrath," Xerxes said in a subdued tone. "Did you know that you sound a lot like Destane?"

Mozenrath's hand paused above the next batch of Iyaliv plants. Jasmine could see the tense anger building just beneath his placid mask as he turned very slowly toward his friend. Xerxes did not draw back or show any sign of fear. His frank, honest attitude should have gotten him killed by now, but he was still alive. That told her that Mozenrath wasn't as merciless as she thought…yet.

Eyes narrowed, he opened his mouth to offer a nasty retort. But in the next moment, he closed it in a false, hollow smile.

"I suppose I do," he said airily. "The old man does speak truth sometimes, though. The life I've lived so far has affirmed it for me. The weak don't deserve mercy because they don't bother to work to make themselves stronger. True strength and worth are only gained through hard work. I've had to pay a steep price for every scrap of knowledge and power I have."

Xerxes shook his head. "I know you've suffered under Destane and worked hard to get where you are now; I don't doubt that. But can't you think of the life you had before you became Destane's apprentice? Before you started turning innocent citizens into zombies?"

"You really think they're innocent? You're completely sold on this mercy thing, aren't you," Mozenrath said, his tone suddenly vicious. "You're a fool, Xerxes."

Xerxes drew back at the malicious inflection in his friend's voice and stayed silent as Mozenrath went on.

"When Destane destroyed my city, I escaped and ended up in Sharath, where I lived on the streets for almost a year. I went from a prince and probably a future high priest to a beggar. A street rat," he said bitterly. "In the temple I was taught to have compassion on the poor and the needy. To forgive petty thieves because stealing was supposedly the only way they could survive. All the moral dogma I was fed made me believe that the poor must be better than those born into wealth and privilege, that they were more pure-hearted, humbler, less greedy. And that all their sins could be excused by their poverty.

"Well, during those months I lived on the streets, dirt poor and in rags, I learned that that was all bullshit.

"The people you think deserve the most mercy actually deserve nothing. Less than nothing. I was beaten, spit on, kicked aside like trash during those months, as often by other beggars as by the merchants and nobles. I learned that no matter how low people are on the social ladder, they'll always strive to be above someone else so they can believe their pathetic lives are worth something. They'll do anything, even abuse poor children, to feel like they actually have some degree of power.

"And you know where Destane found me? On an auction block, being sold as a slave. I was caught by guards, men who are supposedly bound by oath to protect their city and all its citizens, and put in chains so they could make a little money off me like a piece of livestock. And here's the best part. I was caught because I showed someone mercy. I stole a piece of fruit for another beggar who was missing both his hands, and he ratted me out.

"So you see, Xerxes, I've received no mercy. But I've come to believe that that's actually a good thing. Mercy keeps you weak. You can't expect others to get you on your feet and hold you there. You have to do it all yourself, or your life isn't worth anything."

He finished and turned away from his friend, pulling the Iyaliv weeds from the soil with quick, forceful jerks of his hand. Xerxes sat back quietly, seeming to think over all Mozenrath had just shared with him. It was a whole lot more than Jasmine had ever heard directly from his lips.

Mozenrath had turned out so differently from Aladdin. Though Aladdin must have experienced the same things Mozenrath had while he lived on the streets, he still had a great deal of compassion for those around him. He saw the good, not the bad, in everyone, no matter where they were from or what kind of lives they were born into. Mozenrath, on the other hand, only saw people's flaws and evils.

She had to ask herself again if she could blame him. He had been born a prince, after all. She shouldn't compare him with Aladdin. It would be more appropriate to compare him with herself. She probably wouldn't have turned out much differently.

"So my life isn't worth anything to you?" Xerxes said, breaking the silence. "What about Raniye's?"

The boy had a way of cutting directly to the point with his honest statements. But the mention of Raniye intrigued her. It was obvious that Mozenrath thought Laila was worthless, but he had yet to reveal his opinion of the older girl.

Mozenrath paused again, his patience continually tested by his friend's persistence. She could see his jaw clench under the thin flesh of his face.

"What's with all the interrogation?" he said tensely.

"What do you mean?" Xerxes said.

"All these questions. What's your purpose?"

"I just want to know what you think. And maybe tease you about Raniye a little. You don't have to be so defensive about it."

Mozenrath's gaze was unreadable as he stood and looked down at his friend. "How many of Destane's questions have you gotten answers for?"

"What are you talking about?" Xerxes said, clearly confused.

Jasmine watched them both in puzzlement, wondering along with Xerxes what Mozenrath was getting at, why he was so suspicious all of a sudden.

"You're a damn good actor, Xerxes. But I know where your loyalty really lies, and it's not in this 'friendship.'"

Xerxes was standing as well, looking at Mozenrath in bewilderment, his half-filled pack lying forgotten at his feet. "What? I'm not acting at anything. You know me, Mozenrath. I can't tell a lie for my life!"

"But you can lie for your family. For your kingdom. That's how Destane got you to get close to me, to pretend for all this time. Am I right, my friend?" Mozenrath said. His smile was terribly blank.

"This is crazy," Xerxes said, shaking his head. "You're paranoid. Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?"

"Of course not. That's part of your orders from Destane. Get close to me, gain my trust, get to know how my mind works, figure out how I plan to overthrow him," Mozenrath said. "Trick me into thinking you're as guileless and stupid as you pretend to be."

"I'm seriously not pretending at anything! I'm just your friend, that's all, even though you're ungrateful and arrogant as hell!"

Mozenrath laughed then, and she felt her blood run cold. In his voice she heard the bitter callousness he routinely displayed as an adult, when he had condemned her and her friends to die a slow death as he went off to destroy Agrabah with a wind jackal. Had she forgotten about that, about who he was? Since their nightly meetings and all his surprising actions, she had forgotten about the very real evils he was capable of, the countless cruelties he had committed in his thirst for power. How many innocent people had he systematically murdered and turned into undead soldiers by now? How many cries of mercy had he heard and ignored, even laughed at? How many cities had he helped his master conquer and subdue?

The coldness of heart that enabled him to commit such atrocities was clearly embodied in his voice. Without a doubt, he was already well on the path to his adult self.

Xerxes continued, refusing to back down. "I'm your friend, you idiot! I'm your friend even though you treat me like dirt and tell me straight-out that I'm worthless. Even though you've been killing my people and turning them into living nightmares."

"Precisely. Congratulations Xerxes, you've actually hit upon my reasons for distrusting you," Mozenrath said smoothly. "Why _would _you try so hard to befriend me when I constantly treat you like trash? And how can you even stand to talk to me, let alone befriend me, when I've been murdering hundreds of your people since week one? It just doesn't make sense."

He was advancing slowly on the Galareone prince, striding purposefully forward with the same false smile on his face. Despite his thin, unassuming frame, there was an undeniably menacing aura around him, threaded through each step he took. With a movement too quick for Jasmine to follow, he bent and drew something from his boot, and in a flash he had a knife against Xerxes' throat.

He moved forward so that Xerxes had to step back in order to prevent the blade from cutting into his skin. The latter held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, the shock on his face making it seem like he felt more betrayed than his accuser.

"I'll tell you again, Mozenrath, I'm not lying to you, I swear," he said, gulping against the cold iron edge against his neck. He was forced to continue backtracking faster than before as Mozenrath pressed forward, his eyes darting back and forth between the knife and Mozenrath's face. "If I really were working for Destane, I would have confessed by now!"

"No, not yet," Mozenrath said icily, and in another few steps they were at the entrance of the cave. Jasmine gasped; one more step backward and Xerxes would plunge down the mountain to certain death. The prince reeled, catching himself before he could lean backward too far and fall. Mozenrath had stopped walking forward, his blade resting under Xerxes' chin. He cocked his head with mild interest at the wild pulsing of the boy's heart and the unvoiced fear of death standing in his wide eyes. Jasmine held her breath, bracing herself against a wall as she waited for the rest of the heartwrenching scene to play out. Was Mozenrath right? Or was he about to kill his only friend because of a misunderstanding?

"Now," Mozenrath said curtly. "Confess."

The wind howled against the entrance, whipping strands of Xerxes' hair free from his ponytail and ruffling his loose clothes. Mozenrath brushed back a curl of his own ebony hair that had fallen across his forehead and watched the prince patiently.

Xerxes took a shuddering breath to steady himself, his feet an inch away from the precipice of death, and looked directly into Mozenrath's eyes.

"Do it," he said calmly. "Push me off or slash my throat, if you really think I'm lying."

Mozenrath tightened his grip on the knife, narrowing his eyes as he applied more pressure against Xerxes' skin. "Don't tempt me."

"So you're actually willing to kill me. Your best friend—hell, your only friend, you heartless bastard."

"Thanks for the compliment, but I still don't believe you."

"Then you never will," Xerxes said flatly. Jasmine gasped as he reached up and covered Mozenrath's hand with his own, pulling so that the blade cut a line of crimson into his skin.

"Come on," he said as a trail of blood trickled down his throat onto the collar of his shirt. He returned Mozenrath's surprised look with an even stare. "Need me to do it for you?"

"You're even more of a fool than I thought," Mozenrath spat, but Jasmine could see he was resisting the pull of Xerxes' grip. "Think I'll buy that after a year of acting? Destane told you what to do if it came to this, didn't he?"

Xerxes shook his head, the movement widening the cut on his throat. "You're so paranoid. Is it really so hard to believe that people could actually have good intentions and a good heart? That not everyone is like Destane? Or you, for that matter?"

Mozenrath flushed angrily. "Stop comparing me to him!"

"I'm just being honest," Xerxes said. "It's just the way I am."

They stood still for a long moment, the wind whistling around them against the cave opening, and Jasmine moved closer to catch the conflicting emotions playing across Mozenrath's face. He had never looked so uncertain; without his mask of indifference, he even appeared vulnerable.

"Let go of the knife."

It surprised her that Mozenrath was the one who spoke. His voice was harsh, raw, still uncertain, but its commanding edge was not lost on Xerxes. Slowly, steadily, the latter released his grip on the handle of the knife, bringing his hand back to his side.

Just as slowly, Mozenrath backed away from Xerxes, the knife dripping blood across the cave floor as the blade was withdrawn from his skin. Neither seemed to breathe for several seconds, as if Mozenrath still could not release all his suspicions, and Xerxes was still unsure if Mozenrath would let him live. The silence ticked by, heavy as the pounding of Jasmine's heart.

"That hurt."

The dry comment from the injured boy chiseled a crack in the tension, even as she could hear the different layers of meaning it held.

"But I guess it could have been worse," Xerxes added, taking a step forward away from the precipice, back into the safety of the cave. Mozenrath lowered the knife and let it drop to the floor, the clatter of metal echoing throughout the cave.

Jasmine blinked. Mozenrath's hands were clenched into fists, but they were still shaking. With relief that he had been wrong? Fear of what he had almost done?

Walking past Mozenrath as if nothing had happened, Xerxes stooped down and reached into his pack, drawing out a roll of bandages. In another minute he had staunched the shallow flow of blood with a makeshift wrapping. He must have brought the bandages along in case either of them got injured during the climb, never imagining he would be wounded by his friend.

After another moment, Mozenrath picked up his own pack and walked to the entrance of the cave, turned his back to it, and began climbing down the slope.

Xerxes wordlessly stood once more and shouldered his pack as well, climbing after Mozenrath. Jasmine followed them, wondering how this turn of events had damaged their friendship, or perhaps deepened it. The awkward silence sank deep into her heart, and she desperately wanted an affirmation that they would indeed still be friends.

Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised that Mozenrath was paranoid. He hadn't had much interaction with many people his age, and it seemed Xerxes was his first real friend after his city had been destroyed. It was easy to be suspicious, especially when Xerxes displayed such open kindness despite Mozenrath's routine slaughter of his people.

It was also natural to see that as the time to enact his plan to overthrow Destane drew nearer, he was becoming warier of those close to him. He would allow no room for loose variables, including liabilities like the prince and princesses Destane had said would keep him company.

She brought herself up short of feeling pity for him. She had pitied him as a child who had been helpless and not fully aware of what he was getting into when he had agreed to becoming Destane's apprentice. Somewhere between the creation of his first Mamluk and now, she had to withhold her sympathy. He had chosen to stick with his plan for revenge, no matter what it cost him, including his ability to trust someone as genuinely kind as Xerxes.

_And what about revenge? Is that justified?_

She brushed the question aside; it was too complicated to sort out at the moment, and she was tired of trying to grapple with her own hypocrisy.

Mozenrath was obviously exhausted from the climb and the burden of what he had almost done to his friend. It didn't surprise her when he soon slipped and began sliding haphazardly down the side of the mountain, scrabbling for a handhold. Before he could split his leg open on the jagged rocks jutting out beneath him, Xerxes grabbed his hand and hauled him back upward. Mozenrath stared at him in open surprise this time.

"You're welcome," Xerxes said simply. "That means I forgive you, by the way."

Jasmine sat against the slope as he helped Mozenrath regain his footing, and noticed that her surroundings were turning the shade of sand once again. What appeared as dirt and small pebbles on the mountainside was condensing into waves of sand from the Mirror, flowing smoothly over the slope and around her feet, brushing her unscratched skin in a familiar embrace. She stood, trying to see the boys as they continued their descent away from her, but the sand obscured her vision, sweeping over their bodies as well as the surrounding scenery.

She stared blankly at nothing as she suddenly saw the situation from Xerxes' point of view. His best friend had threatened to kill him, and he had forgiven him immediately without any bitterness or hard feelings, even without receiving an apology first.

But Raeven, whatever kind of relationship they might have had in the past, didn't deserve her forgiveness. All she knew was that he had wronged her in one of the worst ways imaginable.

But was it worse than being held at knifepoint on the edge of a cliff by a friend?

_Ah, Princess. Always avoiding the things you don't want to hear._

She recalled Mozenrath's words as she drew nearer than she had ever been to an honest assessment of herself. The verdict unsettled her greatly.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

She was suddenly up to her waist in freezing water once again and quickly sinking. This was no fanciful room in a palace; she had one moment to glance around at the endless waves of the ocean before she went completely under, dragged downward by some unseen force.

Breath escaped her lungs under the pressure of icy currents and the growing darkness. She fought not to panic as she reminded herself that she could not be physically harmed.

It was unsurprising when she found that the first involuntary gasp for breath she took was not a lungful of seawater, but of cold, crisp air. There was only one person who could be waiting for her in such a place. She fleetingly wondered how many of her enemies she would be meeting through the Mirror.

"Why, so nice of you to drop by, Princess. How has your trip through the sand been? A little rougher than water, I expect?"

The darkness lit up in a soft yellow glow, sending a ripple of déjà vu through her. She half-expected the slimy feel of tentacles to encircle her limbs, but found that she was alone with the mermaid this time. The elemental propelled herself with minimal effort toward her. She looked the same as ever—vivid red hair crowned with a gold tiara, clad in a form-fitting orange top that blended into her tail, dainty facial features enhanced with apparently water-proof cosmetics.

Jasmine said nothing, knowing this was only the start of another of the Mirror's twisted scenarios. Perhaps it would be best not to respond at all to the inevitable taunts and mind games. She had let her emotions take over in the last scene, and the pain of the massive memory loss was only too fresh. So she forced herself to stay calm and silent, and returned the elemental's curious gaze without expression.

"Catfish got your tongue? Where are the petulant demands to be let free, the futile threats?" Saleen raised a fine eyebrow. "Well, silence does look good on you."

She languidly fanned out her tail and swam in a slow circle around her. "Acting like I don't exist won't help you get out of this any quicker, just to let you know. There are some…issues that need to be hammered out, and we have all the time in the world." She made a show of inspecting her neatly polished nails. "So why don't we begin, Princess?"

"Begin what?" Jasmine finally spoke. "Another one of your failed attemp—"

"Let's start with this attitude of yours," the mermaid cut in. "What was that you were about to say? Another insult from the long list of overused hero lines? Spare me."

Saleen floated idly in front of her, reaching forward to brush a stray strand of hair back from Jasmine's face. She flinched away, and the mermaid lowered her hand with a resigned sigh. "Oh Princess, don't you know how frazzled you look right now? I'm only trying to help you. Proper grooming is essential for relieving stress."

It was unnerving that the Mirror's representations of Raeven and Saleen were so true to life. She then remembered that the Mirror held all of history within its sands; it shouldn't have come as a surprise that it could create such accurate portrayals of any person alive or dead.

"I have to admit you were pretty clever in weaseling your way out of lover boy's suspicions last time. The helpless princess routine always works, doesn't it?"

"There was nothing to suspect," Jasmine said coldly. "It wasn't my fault."

"Of course, nothing's ever your fault," Saleen said nonchalantly. Jasmine felt a chill as the voice of the mermaid seemed to waver for a split-second, revealing the true entity behind the taunts and airy gestures.

The elemental smiled, a pristine mask sliding seamlessly over her features once again. "What can I say, digging up dirt on land dwellers is a hobby of mine. A taste of your own medicine, so to speak."

With a wave of her hand, the water before them began to swirl and shimmer. Jasmine tensed, expecting to see a dreadful repeat of what had happened in Desrial. Why did she have to be continually haunted by that scene?

"Although I can't imagine how street rats can get any dirtier than they already are," the mermaid added sweetly.

The water cleared into an image of city streets. Agrabah. Jasmine frowned, throwing a questioning glance at Saleen, but the mermaid only nodded with a self-satisfied smirk toward the moving image. The scene was weirdly distorted as if through a pane of glass. Then she realized that the vantage point Saleen had created had to be a body of liquid of some sort, perhaps a pool or a barrel, or even a glass bottle.

Peering more closely at the scene, she recognized the place from her trips through the city. It was night, and the area seemed to be lit with faint red and violet smoke, but she could see no lanterns or flame. Menacing, shadowy figures leaned quietly against crumbling walls, and she saw the gleam of blades in their hands as they surveyed the surrounding alleys, seeming to expect violence like a familiar visitor. There were other shadows as well, lithe feminine forms clad in hardly anything more than the smoke that swirled around their bodies, sauntering slowly about the streets, beckoning to strangers who had come here for an obvious purpose. Jasmine was looking at the sordid underbelly of the city, where her father's laws were broken as easily as brittle straws. The merchants who owned the brothels and hashish dens here were powerful and dangerous, and hired their own guards to maintain their idea of order and justice. Razoul's men never entered these streets.

Jasmine suddenly dreaded the mermaid's—no, the Mirror's—purpose in showing her this. She had only been to that part of the city a handful of times, and only in passing as she traveled hastily toward other destinations. But Aladdin…she realized she had no idea how familiar he might be with this place.

Her lack of control over everything in this Mirror was finally getting to her. She couldn't choose what to see, when to stop, or what memories to lose. Couldn't choose to rest and recalibrate her senses, to sit down and _think _about all she had seen and what might have been taken away from her already. She had no time to question all the accusations it was throwing at her about her personality, her flaws, her sins, and whether they were true. She was just being tugged helplessly along in a backward-flowing sandstorm into the past, with no knowledge of why the Mirror even existed, what it was aiming to accomplish by impersonating her enemies, and what the purpose of this foreboding scene was.

_By nature you are needy for control. I imagine it has been very difficult for you to feel like it is slipping away…_

Mozenrath's words had never sounded truer.

Absurdly, she wished that he were here again to break Saleen's power over her, to dispel the image of dark, smoky streets that reeked of her kingdom's shame. But she was alone, and she could not choose to stop the scene from continuing.

She could not choose to end it before she saw Aladdin's face among the scattered wanderers in that cradle of filth.

_No…_

_Not there. He shouldn't be there. What is he doing there?!_

Her hands flew to her face, instinctively blocking out the sight, even though the simple reflex of shutting her eyes would have done just the same. But it was in the nature of all people to put as many barriers between themselves and the unpleasant things they could not bring themselves to face. For all her assertions of courage and defiance of the Mirror's fear tactics, she was no exception.

She stopped short of shutting out the sight completely. It was also part of human nature to seek out the truth, even if it would rip her heart to shreds.

She watched as he moved with as much stealth and grace as he always did, confident ease coupled with lightning reflex held in check, casting infinitesimal glances casually at his surroundings as if he had something to hide. He was carrying something valuable on his person, that much she could tell.

He walked up to a curtained doorway surrounded by tall muscled men who would think nothing of slashing a street rat's throat and taking whatever treasure he had managed to pilfer from some unsuspecting patrician. But they did not move as he approached. The one nearest to the door simply drew back the beaded curtain to let him inside. She caught a full glimpse of Aladdin's face as he looked over his shoulder one last time in wariness.

And she let out a slight breath of relief. This was a scene from the past, before they had met. His face was younger; he was sixteen, perhaps. Seventeen at most.

She calmed herself. Perhaps her fears were unfounded. Perhaps he was here to deliver a treasure in secret to some lord who did not want to be seen by official city guards. Perhaps he had been forced to serve one of the unsavory merchants who owned this quarter, his exceptional skill at thievery and espionage having caught their attention.

"Those are fair conjectures. But your desperation has made you forgetful," Saleen murmured, smiling wickedly as Jasmine realized the Mirror could read her mind. "I'm the one who picked this scene to show you. Why would I choose something so unexciting, so—typical—of your diamond-in-the-rough hero? Why not something more…provocative?"

The mermaid's taunt threw her back into a whirl of fear and dread. Aladdin _was_ a diamond in the rough, pure of heart, pure in his love for her. He didn't belong in such a wretched scene, walking purposely into a den of prostitutes and drug lords.

"You mean he couldn't belong with any woman before you, hm?" Saleen purred. "Think again, Princess."

The window in the water blurred, revealing a dimly lit, hazy room tinted mauve by the new vantage point of a wine goblet. A raw sense of intimacy exuded from the low ceiling and lush carpet, muffling the sound of footsteps and voices. There was a spacious bed concealed on each side by long gossamer curtains that glittered in shades of amethyst and rose. The faint outline of a reclining figure was visible behind the gauzy drapes.

Aladdin moved forward hesitantly, his natural confidence seeming to falter in the intoxicating aura of this room, and drew back the long curtain at the foot of the bed.

The first spike went through Jasmine's heart with alarming precision. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful. Her flawless face was a mesmerizing blend of delicacy and sharpness, her long-lashed eyes questioning the poor street boy who had come to visit. Her lower body was covered in a brightly colored sarong, and her torso was wrapped loosely in a light saffron shawl. Stretching her legs languorously across the sheets, she tilted her head at him, but Jasmine saw through her feigned curiosity.

Of course, a woman who made a living off her body used her beauty as a weapon. Her eyes held the look of a masterful actress, every gesture and facial expression part of a ruse to entice her visitors. She must have used such a mask to please many wealthy clients in order to afford her luxurious living quarters. But she shouldn't have needed to stage an act in front of a penniless street rat unless he had something of value for her.

Jasmine saw that her earlier conjecture was correct. He drew out a small object from his vest and extended it toward the woman with an open palm. It was a gold bracelet inlaid with rubies, obviously of great value. It might have meant a year's worth of food and basic necessities for him. And here he was, giving it away to a whore.

As the second spike struck her heart, she realized how difficult it was to breathe, and it had nothing to do with the water. Aladdin had been truly enraptured by this woman. She was dangerously beautiful and might have had the power to make a street boy feel like a prince, but in reality she was just a whore, on par with the thieves and thugs that roamed the streets of this part of Agrabah.

But Aladdin was a thief, a street rat. In actuality he wasn't stepping above his station, no matter how refined and wealthy this woman appeared. Street rats stole and lied to make ends meet. Women like her sold their bodies and manipulated naïve hearts.

_You really think they're innocent?_

Mozenrath's words echoed through her head as the woman smiled with a veneer of warmth and accepted the glittering bracelet from the calloused hands of a street rat. A street rat who would later win the heart of a princess, a woman born into royalty and riches a commoner could never hope to attain…a woman who had never thought to question his past outside of the hardships he must have faced growing up on the streets. A woman who had waited chastely for a man who would be worthy of her. Her naiveté was killing her slowly now, shattering her long-held trust in him, her image of him as a man of virtue.

The woman slipped the bracelet on one dainty wrist and admired it with feigned awe and concealed contempt at the boy's foolishness, twirling it idly with her fingers as if completely unaware of the painstaking process he must have undergone to acquire it. He must have said something then, because she turned her attention toward him once again, her smile seeming to lose its warmth as she beckoned him with a lazy gesture of her hand. At the sight of her fiancé moving across the bed of another woman, the third spear sliced cleanly through the last of Jasmine's fraying heartstrings.

"Stop," Jasmine whispered, not able to feel her tears in the ocean that surrounded her. "Saleen, stop."

"My my, the standards for heroes are quite lax these days, aren't they?" Saleen said, ignoring her plea. "My impression was that princes were supposed to dally with princesses only? Oh, that's right. Aladdin isn't a prince. I guess street rats can't really be blamed for crawling around with their own kind, can they?"

Jasmine shut her eyes, refusing to see any more of the scene, having witnessed enough of a truth she had never considered before. But what had she expected? That all his life he'd been waiting for the day a princess would walk across his path and he'd become the kingdom's hero?

"How does it feel, Princess," the mermaid said in a soft, menacing tone, "to finally be on the receiving end of a little secret keeping?"

Her heart was still beating even though she thought it lay in ribbons. And her lungs still drew in air even though she thought she would suffocate. She was still alive, and she would still live beyond this.

But would it ever be the same between her and Aladdin? Could she ever look at him and see the same pure-hearted hero who'd swept her off her feet?

He hadn't really lied, she tried to justify weakly. He just hadn't told her the most salient details of his past. How could he even have begun to broach the subject with her? This wasn't something anyone would be willing to share with their fiancé. But in her gut she felt there was no justification he could offer for this ugly picture of his past. He hadn't betrayed her, because he hadn't even known her yet, but…he had broken something between them with this stain on his character.

She thought about how flirtatious he had tended to be with other women even after they had met. How he had blown kisses to a balcony of dancer girls during his grand, magic-filled parade through Agrabah, even though his heart was supposedly set on her. How he had ended up in Sadira's brainwashing trap because he had willingly followed her to her home. And how he had so easily turned on the charm with Saleen herself, even though it had been part of the plan to free Jasmine from her watery prison. The signs had been blatantly obvious. If he acted that way when he was committed to be married, what had he been like when he was alone?

But she could not imagine Aladdin stooping so low as to exchange gold for purely physical pleasure. The thought that immediately followed struck another blow to her heart. What if he really had loved the woman; what if he'd been as committed to her as he was to Jasmine? Had he been so deeply and foolishly in love that he'd bought into her seasoned acting? He had been young at the time. People made mistakes when they were young.

She clung desperately to the thought that at least he had been faithful to her since they had met, no matter what his past had been like. Though at times he flirted and his eyes wandered, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had proven his love for her countless times through danger of death.

Her mind was a whirlwind of thought and emotion that she could not sort out. She held onto the one anchoring assertion that she had to stand firm against the Mirror's attempts to break her. Her emotions were pulling her in a dozen directions, but she could not fall.

So she opened her eyes against the pain of betrayal, jealousy, anger, hurt, and helpless dread at the knowledge that things would never again be the same between her and the man she loved. And she saw that the water before her was dark and empty.

"Is it really that shocking?" Saleen questioned with amusement. "I thought you knew there were others before you. Didn't he tell you on that sunny day on the beach when you first had the pleasure of stumbling into my water?"

The mermaid's words stirred up an old memory that had once seemed insignificant. Jasmine remembered that conversation. She had asked him if he had seen other women before her, and he'd responded nonchalantly that there had been many. Though it had bothered her, she had forgotten about it in the ensuing havoc of falling into Saleen's water.

"This is the most speechless I've seen you, Princess," the mermaid remarked. "Where are the threats, the self-righteous vows? Wizard boy didn't turn you into a Mamluk, did he?"

At the mention of Mozenrath, she forced her thoughts away from Aladdin and to the scene that awaited her next. If she could just concentrate on her purpose here, then she would be able to make it through. If she allowed herself to agonize over the past and her own pain, she would never get out of this Mirror before going mad.

The elemental looked surprised at the calmness of her voice when she finally spoke.

"The damage has been done," Jasmine said softly. "Let me go."

A sly smile appeared easily on the mermaid's face. For a jarring moment Jasmine saw the crazed grin of a little girl with black soil cupped in her dainty hands, watching her with malicious glee. She blinked and the flickering illusion was gone, but the chill in her blood remained.

"Very well," Saleen said evenly. "Although as you might expect…things are just going to get dirtier from here." She winked and tapped a neatly manicured finger against Jasmine's temple. "Have fun in the sand, dear. Give my regards to your handsome sorcerer."

The water began to churn and lighten into the color of sand, its texture transforming from cold and wet to coarse and dry. She kept her thoughts on Mozenrath, the fact that she was one step closer to discovering his ultimate plan every time she persevered through the Mirror's torment.

He was the reason for her suffering, the greatest suffering she had ever experienced in her pampered life. Suffering that she willingly accepted because she needed to defeat him. But then there was the unsettling voice at the back of her head, now seizing the chance in her confusion to whisper a thought through the barrier she had built around it. She wasn't here only to defeat him; that goal had blurred at the edges long ago, when she had decided to risk her life to obtain the Mirror.

_Obsessed._

She clamped down on that voice once again and shut it away tightly, refusing to continue that train of thought. To her relief, her rapidly changing surroundings were enough to occupy her attention. The sand enveloping her vision darkened to black as it receded from her face, settling into solid ground beneath her feet, its midnight shade spreading outward all around her into the distance as far as she could see. The sky was as dark as night, but it was strangely warm, not freezing cold like the Agrabanian desert. She was alone in the vast emptiness of these dunes, a sallow moon hanging overhead. Shielding her eyes from it, she was surprised at its unusual intensity and…heat? She could feel the familiar rays of the sun tingling her skin, but there was no blazing light to accompany them. And then she realized that what appeared to be the moon suspended in its sickly pallor in the sky was actually the sun, its brilliant golden glow asphyxiated by the oppressive darkness that pervaded this place.

A bone-chilling, unearthly howl forced out the remnants of pained confusion from her mind. It was disturbingly close. She immediately tensed, crouching in a defensive stance, her eyes darting around to find the source of the vile sound. And then she heard another, even closer, overlapping with the first. There was more than one creature nearby.

The shrill scream of a young girl split the air, followed by the quick, choking breaths of someone running on her last bit of energy. Jasmine ran up the high dune in front of her, not caring for danger or terror, knowing she could not be harmed or seen. In despair she realized she could not help the girl, either.

At the top of the dune she looked down and saw a flash of flaxen hair and a silver cloak against the blackness of the sand, the young princess stumbling haphazardly toward the slope as three sleek shadowy shapes bounded after her, still a distance away but closing fast. As they let loose another chorus of deathly howls, she saw what they were by the shine of the razor sharp teeth in their gaping mouths. Undead hounds. Destane did keep man-eating dogs after all.

But they were far from normal canines. Their bodies were frighteningly disproportionate, the front part of their bodies monstrously muscular, with nearly fleshless skulls for heads, their sunken red eyes flaring as they tracked their prey. But the rear of their bodies seemed to taper off into smoke, their hind legs flickering in and out of the air, hardly touching the ground as they barreled forward mostly on the strength of their front legs. Their feet ended in elongated claws that visibly gleamed even from a distance, and Jasmine imagined for a terrifying moment the fate of those who were caught by one of these monsters.

Laila was going to meet that fate in another three seconds. Jasmine wrenched her eyes away as the girl screamed one last time before hitting the sand with a dull thud.

Without warning, the triumphant howls of the hounds suddenly became angry snarls and pained whimpers.

A breath of relief escaped her lips at the sight of Laila lying whole and unharmed in the sand. The hounds had surrounded her on three sides but were keeping a healthy distance, their crimson eyes narrowing at the dark figure that had appeared in front of the young princess. Their rear legs solidified as they took several steps backward, sizing up the intruder with whatever senses undead creatures had.

There was a brilliant flash as three circles of white light lit up the ground beneath each of the beasts, black sand exploding around their malformed bodies. Currents of light shot upward from the rings encircling them, and the forms of the creatures began to flicker and fade along with their howls of protest and rage. In another second the light died down, the glowing circles slowly disappearing from the sand. The monsters were nowhere to be seen.

The tall figure that had cast the spell lowered his hand and whirled around, glaring down at the fallen princess who was just regaining full consciousness. He drew back the hood of his gray cloak with a brisk flick of the fingers, revealing an older, obviously irritated Mozenrath.

"What were you thinking, you fool? You should know by now that you can't escape. Have you cracked completely?" he gritted out, towering over Laila's trembling form. He did not offer a hand to help her up. "Never mind. I think the answer is quite apparent."

Jasmine walked down the slope to see them better. Laila was sitting upright now, her thin arms curled around her knees, one of the sleeves of her silver cloak having torn off in her flight. She rocked back and forth, babbling incoherently, obviously still shaken by her near-death experience. Perhaps she really had gone mad. The poor girl had shown signs of instability since the day she had arrived at the Citadel.

"He's going to…he told her that…he wanted…she said…not enough…not enough!" she blurted out, her hands now clutching the mess of golden hair atop her head. "Don't let her take me!"

Mozenrath's face was a mask of utter contempt as he knelt down to her face level and stared into her bloodshot eyes. "What are you babbling about? Who said what?"

"Power. Power is in the souls. The souls, you understand, you dimwitted fool!" she shouted viciously in a voice not quite her own. In the next second she receded into the trembling tone of a young girl lost in her own madness. "I can't…I can't let…"

The slap he delivered to her face rang crisply in the dead night air. Jasmine bristled angrily at his callousness. He must have cast some sort of silencing spell as well, because Laila abruptly stopped whimpering.

"Get a hold of yourself," he said coldly. "Before I change my mind and let the hounds have you."

He grabbed her by the forearms and roughly drew her to stand upright with him, still staring into her eyes and forcing her gaze to be still under some kind of magic. Jasmine could see the faint shudders in her jaw as she strained to move against the spell.

"What have you been hearing? Just the voices of madness that have taken up residence in your mind? Or is there something important I need to know?"

She was freed from the silencing spell temporarily, and sound poured forth once again from her cracked, bleeding lips. "He's after our souls," she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.

Mozenrath stopped her before she could continue. "You're talking about Destane. Right?" He gave her a violent shake as she began to chatter uselessly once again. "Right? You've heard Destane talking with someone."

She nodded, tears flowing down her once full and rosy cheeks, now reduced to gaunt, pallid flesh.

"And it's a she," Mozenrath said, frowning. "What do they say? What about souls?"

"All of them. She wants…" she said, her voice cracking in a sob. "Run. Run before he can take it…"

Mozenrath growled in frustration as he tried to make sense of her muttering. "She wants all of them? Whose? And why is he giving them to her?"

"Power is in the souls," she echoed, forced to keep staring into Mozenrath's unfaltering gaze.

He seemed to understand then, nodding slowly as he digested her reply. "The prisoners…" he mused under his breath. "Makes sense."

He turned his attention back toward her. "He wants ours as well? Me, you? Xerxes, Raniye?"

"You," she said softly. "You're last."

His hard gaze faltered at her ominous words, and he released her arms slowly. "Do you know what kind of power it is?"

"Power is in the souls."

Apparently deciding he would get no more useful information out of her, he turned away and broke the restraining spell, letting her collapse once again into the sand. In the distance Jasmine heard howling once more. She wondered how many monsters roamed this land. Perhaps she should consider herself lucky that she and Aladdin had never encountered anything other than Mamluks during their visits.

Jasmine was transported instantaneously back to the Citadel with them as Mozenrath cast another spell. Her surroundings materialized within a second, and she saw that they were in a bedroom. It was Laila's, from the look of the clothing strewn haphazardly around the floor and under chairs, across the bed and on top of an overturned dresser. She had apparently made a mess of things before her futile attempt to escape. Mozenrath grabbed her by the arms again and unceremoniously dumped her onto the bed, roughly shoving her legs onto the mattress as they carelessly slid over the edge toward the floor. With a curt gesture of his hand, the princess was covered in a blanket, her head resting against a large pillow.

"If you try to escape again, I'm not going to save you. Now sleep," he ordered.

"I'll dream of them…"she whimpered, tears still coursing down her face.

Scowling, he raised one hand reluctantly—his right, Jasmine noticed, which he always seemed to use for spells—and passed it over the girl's frightened blue eyes. The tense muscles in her face relaxed, and she closed her eyes without another word.

Letting out a long breath of exasperation, Mozenrath briskly drew his arm in an arc of dark fire and transported himself and Jasmine out of the room.

They arrived in the vast library of the Citadel. She barely had time to wonder exactly what Laila had revealed when she remembered that Eberzin had said something about the power of souls. They were the power source of Mozenrath's gauntlet. But it had originally been Destane's…

"Welcome back," a female voice said.

Mozenrath strode toward the table where the dark-haired princess was seated, clad in a black dress similar to what she had worn when Jasmine had first seen her. She did not look up from the thick book she was reading. Getting a closer look at the older girl, Jasmine found she was even lovelier now that she had matured several years. But the hollowness in her long-lashed eyes revealed that no amount of outward beauty could compensate for what she had lost inside. Her gaze was empty as she finally met Mozenrath's arrogant stare.

"I found only one source that might yield more information about the Book's whereabouts. The ruins of the Archive of Haroul," she said, her voice ingrained with a deep weariness. "But that's a far journey from here. I don't know how you could convince Destane to let you go."

Mozenrath began to pace the floor in front of the table restlessly. "Xerxes and I searched those ruins when he sent us to capture the wraith hawks. There is nothing there but rubble; it has been ransacked of all value over the centuries."

He stopped and looked at her critically. "Nothing else? You could find nothing else in this massive library about it?"

"No."

"Keep looking," he said curtly. "There's got to be something here. Try the tomes on Athirian mythology. Let me know tomorrow if those show any potential."

"I've looked through them already, Mozenrath," Raniye said tiredly. "Even if you do find the Book, you have no knowledge of how to harness its power. I think you should consider another route."

"I might just do that, actually," he said with unexpected ease. Raniye raised an eyebrow. "Our resident empath disclosed some interesting information to me just now. Seems that a near-death experience is needed to wrench anything useful out of the jumbled mess of her mind."

His words made Jasmine pause. After Jafar's betrayal, her father had begun employing empaths among his personal guard, as their uncanny sensitivity to others' thoughts and emotions allowed them to screen for potential traitors. But such people were rare and more than often mentally unstable from the continuous overexposure of their minds to outside forces.

"What did she say?" Raniye asked.

"Destane's been conversing with some kind of spirit about power. A female spirit that wants souls. My conjecture is it's one of those classic deals: power in exchange for souls. Not his own, of course; I think he's using the prisoners. I knew he was up to something when he started killing them himself instead of having me do it," Mozenrath said as he began to pace again, his loose gray robes swirling about his thin frame. "And she said I'd be last."

"If he's saving you for last, then he'll probably kill all of us first. When is he planning to do it?" Strangely, there was no trace of fear in her voice.

Mozenrath eyed her warily. "I don't know. I have to find out what kind of power it is first."

"There's a lot you have to find out. What kind of being he's made this deal with. How many souls he requires. How much time we have left before he kills—"

He interrupted her with a dismissive snort. "As if I'd let that happen."

"Do you have a plan to stop him?" she asked.

"I will," he asserted coolly, but did not elaborate. He stopped his pacing in front of a bookshelf, his cool gaze passing over rows of lettered bindings without really reading them. A span of silence passed before Raniye spoke again.

"I need more ayurma. He's returning tonight."

A twinge of disgust passed over Mozenrath's face as he absently passed his hand—still healthy flesh, Jasmine noticed now—over the thick bindings of spell books and tomes she had no understanding of.

"You've had too much of it," he said tensely. "It's become an addiction just as harmful as what it's meant to cure."

"I would rather be a slave in body to a mere potion than a slave in heart and mind to a man I have wanted dead for years," she replied calmly. "Give it to me."

"I just need a little more time, Raniye," he said sharply, turning toward her. "A little more time and he _will _be dead."

"And what's your plan, Mozenrath?" she said, softly challenging him. "You keep saying you'll kill him, but the reality is you don't know how." She did not flinch at his acidic glare; it was apparent she did not mean it as an insult, only as a statement of fact. "I'm just asking to be able to forget. Forget the sickening things he makes me do. Forget how badly I want to die when he poisons my mind—"

"You have to remember. Especially now that we know he's up to something," Mozenrath said adamantly, turning from the bookshelf and approaching her. He planted his palms on the table, on either side of the book she had been perusing. Jasmine saw the conflict that underlined his steel gaze. "You have to talk and listen and remember. Or has that drug made you forget your loyalties already?"

Raniye sat still and unbowed by his intimidating stance. "Is that what I am to you now? Just another loyal servant? I guess I shouldn't have expected the apprentice to be much different from the master."

He flushed angrily and grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her violently to her feet. "You are a slave here whether you like it or not," he said harshly. His tone dropped lower, and his grip seemed to ease infinitesimally. "But believe me, I will kill Destane and take power over this domain. Then you will have your freedom. Not before."

Raniye's gaze did not falter. Her midnight eyes were empty, spiritless. Jasmine wondered whether she would even be able to enjoy freedom if Mozenrath could grant it to her.

"Let go of me, Mozenrath," she said quietly.

He removed his hand tentatively from her wrist but did not back away. They stood silently for several seconds, separated by a wooden table and the ancient secrets scattered atop it.

Then Mozenrath gestured with his hand, and they disappeared from the room. Jasmine felt her feet lift from the ground as she followed them in a soft whirl of air. She touched down on sand, almost slipping as she landed on the side of a steep dune. Mozenrath was already walking up the slope, and Raniye watched him curiously for a moment before moving after him.

They were still in the Land of the Black Sand, as the color of the granules beneath their feet clearly affirmed. But the sky was lighter than usual. The sickly shrouded sun was no longer hanging high above, but dropping nearer to the horizon in front of them. She reached the top of the dune after Mozenrath and Raniye, where a breathtaking sight awaited her.

They were at the edge of the dark, open-air prison that was Destane's territory. A few feet in front of them lay the dividing line between the Seven Deserts and the Land of the Black Sand. Coarse midnight earth faded into the lighter common hue, a cool breeze shifting the meandering swirls of the border. Beyond the boundary were endless dunes of familiar gold sand, glittering in the prelude to an auburn sunset, the sky still darker than it was in other lands. The clouds were tinted russet instead of orange, and the sky overhead was bleeding into violet.

The wind ruffled Mozenrath's unbound hair, sweeping it around his shoulders. He brushed a curl back from his face as he surveyed their surroundings, seemingly awaiting a response from the princess he had brought here. Raniye's own raven-black hair flowed loosely around her face, obscuring her expression from Jasmine's view. She did not move, staring straight ahead at the glowing sun that was steadily sinking toward the horizon.

"Did you bring me here to mock me, Mozenrath?" she asked softly.

He looked at her for a long moment before answering. "This is the line between you and your greatest desire. What will you give to cross it?"

She closed her eyes, feeling the wind against her skin and letting it whip her hair into further disarray. "I've already given all I have. What more is there?"

"There is always more," he said simply. "You are still alive."

"I am alive in the way Mamluks are alive," Raniye said bitterly. "I should have died long ago, but Destane has kept me alive for his own pleasure. My kingdom has kept me alive for its survival. And you…" She rounded on him suddenly. "You are no better."

He appeared surprised at her outburst, but for once did not react with anger or impatience. He waited for her to continue and did not back away when she stepped closer to him. One slender hand reached up to brush his hair back from his pale, solemn face.

"You wouldn't set me free," she whispered harshly. "Even if you managed to kill Destane and take control of these lands, you wouldn't give me my freedom. You don't know the meaning of the word. Your heart is full of black sand, Mozenrath. Power is the only thing you care for. That's the real reason you want the Book of Khartoum, and the reason you're so eager to believe the raving of a mad empath. You want the power of all those souls for yourself."

If he was offended by her bold accusation, he didn't show it. "You still don't understand, do you?" Mozenrath replied calmly, allowing her hand to rest on his cheek. "Power _is _everything, the determinant of life or death, the key to freedom and everything else one might desire. With it I may have my revenge. But power used only for revenge is a waste. Destane does not define my life's purpose. His death will merely mark the beginning of a new age."

Raniye shook her head. "You speak such big words for a fledgling sorcerer with no plan. I'm sorry I can't believe you."

He flushed angrily as she started to turn away, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders and pulling her face so close to his that they shared the same breath of air. "You will believe me," he hissed. "I've achieved everything I've set my mind to thus far, with the sole exception of Destane's demise. But that will come soon enough. I've proven again and again that when I want something, I get it, whether it takes one or ten years."

"Or four," Raniye said. "Which was how long it took you to become the second self-centered, power-hungry sorcerer to call himself my master." She smiled sadly at the look of surprised indignation on his face. "I know you won't have the heart to set me free, Mozenrath. But don't concern yourself with me. First think about whether you can truly master the power you so desperately desire, or whether it will end up mastering you. That may be a worse kind of slavery than what I have lived through."

She closed the last few inches between them and kissed him softly. But it was heartless and empty as her eyes, and when they parted, Jasmine's own heart was heavy with the sense of utter desolation in the air.

Desolation, and something else far more disturbing. Jealousy. Jasmine immediately tried to choke the unwanted emotion, but it fell from her grasp like an object too hot to touch. She then tried to fight it with cold, rational thought. Yes, she was obsessed with the sorcerer. But that was natural. She had witnessed the most intimate defining moments of his life since birth, and knew him as much more than just an enemy now. Of course it she would feel closely attached to him, but this attachment would not last. This was a passing obsession deepened by the stress she was under because of the Mirror.

But she could not deny that she had subconsciously started to think of Mozenrath as her only anchor amidst the sinister madness of her own past. Jafar, Raeven, Saleen, and even Aladdin had driven her closer to the edge of breaking down and giving up. But the one thing that urged her on was the necessity of knowing Mozenrath's plan—and his life, if she were utterly honest with herself.

_A little more time_, she thought. The echo of Mozenrath's words to Raniye. But she felt as little conviction in those words as the Chryilian princess had. She had no plan and no knowledge of how she would accomplish what she had set out to do, how many memories she had left to lose or how many more sickening revelations the Mirror would force upon her.

"The ayurma," Raniye repeated quietly. Mozenrath paused a long moment before he disengaged himself from her and drew a small bottle out of thin air. She swiftly took it from his reluctant hand, tucking it into her pocket immediately as if she was afraid he would change his mind and take it back.

"Thank you," she said, and looked into his eyes with the resigned sadness of someone who had lost all hope. He did not answer, his impassive gaze giving nothing away.

Jasmine suddenly remembered the night in the desert when Mozenrath had saved her from Saleen and given her an antidote to Raeven's aphrodisiac.

She remembered his gaze then, nearly unreadable but unsettled by the situation he had found her in. Had he been remembering Raniye at that moment? He must have been.

Despite the helpless jealousy she felt at the scene before her, Jasmine realized with a sudden prick of pain that in the present time there was likely nothing left of the Chryilian princess but mere memories. The tragic life she had led would probably end soon, perhaps by Destane's hand if he proceeded with his plans or if he discovered her liaison with his apprentice, and Mozenrath would lose another person who was important to him by his master's whims. Underneath his arrogant posturing, it was obvious he cared for Raniye, albeit in a twisted, possessive fashion. They had somehow come to be together even though Raniye was Destane's slave. Jasmine could not imagine how difficult it must have been for Mozenrath to share her with his most hated enemy, the man he had longed to kill for at least a decade. And even to urge her against taking a potion that could ease her pain, for the sake of advancing his own plans for revenge. He was walking a perilous balance between the woman he cared for and the man he hated, a balance that Jasmine feared would soon snap to pieces.

Mozenrath remained expressionless as he spoke again. "You are right in saying you won't be free after Destane dies. Because when I offer you your freedom, you won't be able to accept it. You cannot return to your kingdom and expect to be treated as the same noble princess you once were, not after serving as the whore of a dark sorcerer for four years. You will be cast aside, not even fit for the status of a concubine or harem maid. Either that, or you will spend the rest of your life behind the walls of a secluded convent, atoning for your impurity by serving in a new kind of prison."

Raniye had closed her eyes, and Jasmine could see the glistening tears suspended right below her long lashes. Mozenrath continued, his voice still calm and rational.

"But there is a way you can have freedom and life once again. By taking those things away from the man who did this to you. Picture him dying. Not yet dead, but dying. In the throes of extreme pain, his mortality frayed to its limit, his hated voice begging you for mercy while you have the full power to deny it. The power to make him wish for death as badly as you have. Power is freedom, Raniye. That is why I have made it my life's goal to pursue it. Not only to kill him, but to take everything from him before he dies; that is the day I have been living for thus far. And then…every day after that, I will live for myself." He smiled, coldly welcoming the thought. "A heart of black sand isn't so bad if you consider what I can do with it."

"You're lying again," she said, her tears drying in the wind before they could fall. "You won't allow anyone else to have a part in killing Destane. You're only using me to prepare your plan."

"Raniye. If you continue to be my eyes and ears, you will already have a part in killing him. Every bit of information you glean from him, any information you can get about his plan for souls and power, will be a bit of his life running through your fingers. Killing is not all violence. Use your imagination. Princesses aren't supposed to get their hands bloody, anyway." He grinned cruelly and drew away from her touch, watching the sunset once again.

They stood silently on the dune as the sun continued to sink, the sky rapidly darkening into a shade more favored by the black sand. Raniye drew closer to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. The gesture was only half-romantic. The rest might have been out of physical necessity, as each minute closer to Destane's return seemed to drain more energy from her.

Jasmine watched them with mixed emotions, still not sure how to react to this new discovery of Mozenrath's past. That small voice bit into her conscience once again, asserting that she had indeed fallen far into obsession, unable to extricate herself from its miring sands.

She had never imagined she would ever come to feel this way toward an enemy who had threatened to take all that she cared about from her in some diabolical scheme. But in the measureless course of her time in the Mirror, she had seen what lay beneath the hot temperament and expert acting. He was a man before he was an enemy or anything else. A man of confidence, fear, determination, worry, desperation, obsession, even affection. A man who had changed greatly over the course of his life until he had become the arrogant, cruel, power-hungry sorcerer he was today.

But the last two scenes made her realize that people never stopped changing all throughout their lives. Or rather, that change was always possible, even after one seemed to be set in his ways, good or bad. She had despaired during each vision of his childhood and teenage years, watching his descent into the vile depths of dark magic, the desire for vengeance, and a growing thirst for power. But if she hadn't been so intent on seeing what she expected to see, she might have noticed sooner that his path wasn't so linear. He had tortured and killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people by now. But he was still capable of friendship, as ungrateful and callous as he appeared. He had decided that power was the only thing that mattered and that the weak were worthless, but he had rescued Laila from a gruesome death and brought her back safely to her room.

He had challenged Jasmine to stop him from wreaking havoc upon her and her kingdom, but he had saved her from Saleen and given her an antidote to clear her system of a Desrialite poison. Perhaps he needed her alive for his plan, as she had guessed earlier, but she still could not explain his second altruistic gesture of the night. Perhaps his reason wasn't manipulative at all, but out of remembrance of Raniye.

The sun was halfway immersed in the horizon, and Mozenrath seemed to decide it was time to return to the Citadel. Removing himself from Raniye's loose embrace, he raised one hand to transport them back.

"Wait," the princess said, staying his hand. Looking back toward the horizon, she took several steps forward until she was an inch away from the amorphous boundary line. She reached her arms forward, her outstretched hands casting long shadows into the land beyond the black sand. But her feet remained behind the border. Jasmine was slightly puzzled, but figured there was some kind of spell that bound her to her master's domain. The princess was only giving herself a half-taste of freedom.

Mozenrath wordlessly swept his hand in her direction, and the black sand around her feet began to swirl, covering her cloth shoes in a thin shimmering layer. She looked down in surprise, then back at him. He nodded to her, urging her forward.

Hesitantly she stepped out of the land to which she was bound as the slave of a tyrant, and into the sands of the Seven Deserts where she rightfully belonged. The sands of her own kingdom were the same shade as the granules currently shifting under her feet, separated from her person by a thin, almost invisible layer of black sand. The closest to freedom she could have, but still a mere semblance of it. She breathed deeply, a slight smile lighting her fair features and seeming to restore her spirit to its former beauty for a brief moment. She looked back at Mozenrath with a smile that was genuine, not empty or sorrowful. He returned her gaze without expression as she turned and crossed back into the Land of the Black Sand. With another flick of his hand, they both vanished, leaving Jasmine behind this time. The floating trail of his spell hung suspended in the air for a second before it began to thicken. She watched impassively as dust and sand accumulated into the swirling waves that soon encased her body, preparing to take her to another time and another place.

He hadn't saved Raniye as Jasmine had hoped before. But he was trying in his own way, through the path of vengeance and power. He wouldn't be able to give her the kind of freedom she wanted, but it was not for lack of will.

Despite everything that was crashing down inside of her, she felt a light smile touch her lips at the small bit of hope a simple sunset and the silhouettes of two young survivors had given her. Both were trapped in prisons both invisible and visible, most clearly embodied in the shifting line between the Seven Deserts and the Land of the Black Sand, between freedom and enslavement, each other's companionship and their separate pain, hope for the future and the relentless reality they faced now.

As the familiar scents and sounds of Agrabah surfaced around her before the sand cleared, she saw in her own mind the dividing line in her own life. It had appeared the first night of Mozenrath's challenge, when he had forced her to face him alone, hiding the truth from her father and Aladdin, drawing an invisible boundary to keep them at a distance. It had deepened each day and night, driving her further into obsession with the darker side of the divide until she had fully immersed herself in it through the Mirror. And from where she currently stood, she was able to see her past, the familiar light sands that now seemed so far away, and all the shadows there that she had never noticed before—Jafar's murder of her mother, her own ability to hate as deeply as she loved, and her fiancé's buried secrets that had shattered her trust.

The sand finally cleared, giving visual definition to the smells and sounds of the marketplace, and she heard the gruff voice of a familiar vendor, tense and accusing.

"You'd better be able to pay for that."

And she heard her own voice answer timidly, full of the uncertainty born of ignorance.

"Pay?"


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Here was where the pain would really begin.

The fear she had only allowed herself to consider for the briefest of moments before she had entered the Mirror would now be fully realized. Everything that had been thrown at her so far paled in comparison to this.

Despite the ugly secrets of his past, despite anything he had failed to tell her, Aladdin was still the breath of her life, the man who'd opened the cage of her isolated world and shown her everything that she could live for. Despite all the difficulties they'd faced, they had proven time and again that nothing could break them apart.

But if she lost all memory of him…

The fear that spiked through her heart was now thickening to dread. If the Mirror had chosen to take this memory, there was nothing she could do about it.

Except demand to leave.

She opened her mouth in tandem with the angry vendor who had caught her in her foolish ignorance.

"No one steals from my cart!" the man snarled.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I don't have any money…"

Jasmine tore her gaze away from her younger self, clad in inconspicuous clothing but still sticking out like a sore thumb amid the bustle and noise of the commoners' marketplace. The weight of duty and another breed of fear sealed her lips from rebelling against the Mirror. Fear that there would be much more to lose if she did not persevere and pay the cost demanded of her.

She scanned the crowd for Aladdin, wanting to treasure the sight of him on this day for as long as possible before the memory was snatched away.

Even after all this time, she couldn't keep up with the stealth and speed of his movements. She heard his voice before she pinpointed him with her eyes; he was already beside her at the fruit cart, defending her in front of the irate vendor with a ridiculous but successful lie.

"You know this girl?" the overweight man questioned dubiously, towering over the boy.

He sighed dramatically. "Sadly, yes. She is my sister. She's a little…crazy."

In spite of everything, Jasmine couldn't help but laugh at the sight of herself looking slightly offended, confused, and charmed by the handsome stranger who had come to her aid. What a stellar first impression—calling her crazy, and his _sister_,of all things. But she found she wouldn't have wanted their first meeting to have gone any other way. There was something about this impromptu scene that had endeared him to her immediately and engraved in her mind the exhilarating qualities in him that she would come to love most.

She felt her legs move of their own accord, running after the young pair once Abu had spoiled the whole eccentric ruse, feeling every breath rush in and out of her lungs with a new consciousness of detail, a painful awareness of the time that was ticking.

He tugged her younger self along by the hand, hardly suppressing his laughter as he glanced over his shoulder at the infuriated merchant, and for a split-second Jasmine felt time run in slow motion. She was in the direct path of his playful, warm gaze, and as their eyes met, she felt the air freeze and all sounds go still around her. And then the next moment his head snapped around again, just in time to notice the small cart intersecting his path. With well-honed reflex he tugged his young companion to the side, dodging injury by mere inches.

The air rushing in her face swept her tears to the corners of her eyes as she continued to run after them, knowing this was a race she would eventually lose. He couldn't see or sense her here at all, and she couldn't touch him or talk to him, couldn't beg him not to leave her mind. Couldn't shout for him to save her from this like he'd saved her so many times before from threats to her life. But it wasn't her life that was endangered this time; it was her love.

Weren't they the same thing?

She forced herself to continue, though the gravity within her heart was dragging her downward, willing her to collapse and give up, to spare herself the pain of remembering this precious scene for the last time.

They approached the long wooden ladder that she had once hesitated to climb out of fear of falling, and Jasmine watched as Aladdin coaxed her with his gentle smile and charm to follow his lead. He'd convinced her without words that she was safe with him. She followed them to the top of the building, feeling another rivulet trickle from a new fracture in her heart as he caught her from stumbling, and she looked deeply into his eyes for the first time. So many firsts.

_There is a beginning and an end to everything_. Thanon had woven this lesson into almost all of the stories he had told her in her childhood. There was always once upon a time. And there was always an end.

But the end was not always happily ever after. This was a lesson that no child, no princess ever wanted to hear. It was also a lesson that could not be taught by mere bedtime stories and fatherly lectures, but had to be burned painfully into one's memory by experience.

She watched as they tried to impress each other, Aladdin with his careless courting of physical danger and herself with her cool reception of his antics. A game that new lovers played to test one another and discover each other's limits and eccentricities. Over the years, they had discovered just about everything about each other, and had come to love every bit of what they had learned. It was only in this Mirror that Jasmine had uncovered something deeply disturbing, something that truly alienated him from her. But when she was actually with him, there seemed to be nothing between them—class, wealth, and social status, perhaps—but nothing between their hearts. Time had tempered the passion and wonder of their love, but had added a deep, steady undercurrent to it, a current that still flowed strongly despite the jagged rocks that had surfaced through the Mirror. They had both changed and matured so much since their first meeting that walking through this scene was like a breath of innocence she had forgotten. She wanted to save it in her heart, to be able to feel this way again, but at the same time she knew no one could hold onto the ignorant bliss of first encounters and first loves forever.

They entered his hovel, which had seemed to her at the time like the most enchanting place she had ever set foot in. Cracked, crumbling walls, holed roof, uneven floor—it was perfect. An exotic picture of a world she had never seen before, a world she rapidly found herself falling in love with beside the young man who had pulled her in.

She sat at a short distance to observe them both as the conversation began to split off into their separate worlds.

"I wonder what it would be like to live there, to have servants and valets…" Wistful wonder filled his words as he reached for a dream that fate had decreed he could never grasp.

"Oh, sure. People who tell you where to go and how to dress." Dampening disenchantment filled hers as she thought back to the dreamless world she had just left.

"It's better than here. Always scraping for food and ducking the guards."

"You're not free to make your own choices."

She had never heard her own voice carry so much truth. She bit her lip as the both of them continued, the distance between their disparate thoughts narrowing down…

"Sometimes you feel so—"

"You're just—"

…to a singular…

"Trapped."

Point.

The admission of their common chains and the innocent gaze of their first real bond tore at Jasmine's heart, as she knew there was no greater trap than what she had allowed herself to fall into. She could choose to leave, but that wasn't really much of a choice, given the devastating cost she might have to pay for failing to win the challenge. Ironically she found herself thinking back to what an evil wizard had once told a young prince named Morathai, that a choice between anything and ultimate loss was not a real choice.

She watched as Aladdin reacted to the news that she was being forced to marry, his inner hopes undoubtedly stumbling a few steps in the midst of their carefree journey thus far. At the same time she saw the spark of mischief in his eyes, the indisputable sign that the wheels were turning rapidly, the street rat ingenuity coming into play to think of how to get around that inconvenience. The spark warmed into a smooth flame when he leaned closer to her, his gaze soft and intent as the distance between their lips began to vanish.

And then, just as she knew it would, the moment shattered, the menacing shouts of royal guards breaking the silence and the magic between them. They were each thrown back into their own worlds, immediately drawing the blame to themselves alone, neither knowing why the other might be incriminated.

The sound of swords slicing through wood and hanging rags drew closer, danger approaching too quickly for a sheltered princess to react. But street rats learned from birth that they had to be one jump ahead of circumstance and peril, dancing on the edge of it if necessary.

He voiced the question that would ring in her dreams and echo on her balcony days later.

"Do you trust me?"

"What?" Her response was full of bewilderment; again, she was too slow.

And suddenly, time stopped.

Her vision went fully black and her heartbeat froze for a millisecond. And then air rushed back into her lungs, her eyes flew open in alarm and confusion at what had just happened, and she looked up, into the deep, intense gaze of the man she loved, staring straight at her.

"Do you trust me?" he repeated urgently, extending his hand, reaching toward her but letting her make the choice.

She stared, wide-eyed and speechless at this sudden turn of events. She was now in the place of her younger self, thrust into making an alarming choice that was not really much of a choice at all.

The question that would be their mantra throughout their relationship was now impossible for her to answer as the image of a smoky room and a glittering bracelet flashed across her mind, clashing with the open sincerity in his gaze.

So she wasted no breath in replying and made the only choice available to her. She reached forward hardly an inch before he did the rest, enfolding her delicate fingers within his strong grip and turning to the open air of the window. She caught a brief, dizzying view of the palace, her home and former prison, before he tugged her sharply toward him and over the edge.

They were freefalling, the wind whipping against her clothes and snatching at her breath, and she felt canvases tearing beneath them as they dropped alarmingly fast. This was just how she had remembered it—he was just how she remembered him. He had never lost his grip on her or broken the trust she had placed in him in her split-second decision, and the steady strength of his hand around hers had told her fleetingly that he would protect her with his life if need be. She had felt his heart through his hand then, and thought that if both of them got through this somehow, they could get through anything together.

She shot a glance downward before they could hit solid ground, waiting for the bruising impact against a pile of hard sand.

And screamed, because below her the streets of Agrabah had disappeared. They were falling toward a vast, churning pit of black sand.

Her voice was forcefully cut off as she hit the roiling sludge, the vile substance engulfing her limbs and tearing her fingers from Aladdin's grip. It dragged at her clothes, filling her mouth and ears, and she tried in vain to spit it out only to choke as more poured in, blocking her screams. Her eyes darted frantically toward Aladdin; the sand had already swept him a far distance from her, pulling him under at a rapid rate. His strength and dexterity counted for nothing in the embrace of the dark magic Jasmine had become so familiar with. He was reaching for her with the last of the power in his muscled limbs, but a thick swell of the midnight mire rose up and enveloped his arm, drawing it downward with the rest of his body. And then the sand filled her eyes as well, turning her vision to black.

She knew this feeling so intimately by now, the feeling of impending loss by the death grip of the sand, how it would tear the memory from her like a piece of flesh. But she had never felt a loss of such magnitude, outweighing all the pain of forgetting the prince of Desrial. It was a loss in spirit and heart, not just in mind and body.

She sank into the depths of the suffocating sand, stretching one arm helplessly toward the surface as if she could still break free. As she felt the pressure begin to condense around her head, tugging, probing at her mind, she began repeating his name desperately, willing herself to at least remember that the memory she would lose was related to him. And then the relentless claws of the sand latched onto the intricate threads of fabric in her mind and ripped them from their tapestry with a violent burst of pain.

_Aladdin…!_

Her mind exploded in blankness, a haphazard mess of confusion as the memory was forcefully siphoned from her.

_Aladdin._

She took a full gasp of air as the sand released her suddenly, and she was falling again, reciting his name though she did not clearly know why. The ground welcomed her sooner than she was ready, and she slammed into a surface of hard, real soil this time.

Her vision swam in stars at the trauma of her loss. _Aladdin…_

She must have lost a memory concerning him. She shut her eyes then, willing time to stop or at least slow, to give her time to think, to figure out what had happened. At least she still remembered his name. She knew who he was, and her love for him still beat strongly within her heart. So the Mirror had not taken all of her memories of him. But it must have taken something important.

Time waited for no one, she knew intimately by now. So she opened her eyes and forced herself to move on, to shut away the painful thought of what she may have lost.

She brushed the dirt off her body and stood slowly, turning around to take in her surroundings with cautious eyes. This was not a desert. Mountains loomed on one side, while on the other was a vast, grassy plain. To her surprise, Mozenrath and Xerxes were right behind her, closer than she'd ever been to the two of them. The former had grown another inch since she had last seen him, clad in a dark blue vest and pants lined with silver. His friend was slightly taller, dressed once again in the dark green of Galareone royalty. She noticed where their attention was riveted, and turned around again to find they were standing in front of a kingdom's wide gates.

Gates that were flanked by dozens of rows of rotting corpses, headless and impaled on wooden poles.

Then the smell hit her full blast, and she almost retched at the feet of the two young men. The two of them stood still, but upon closer scrutiny it was obvious that their reactions to the grisly scene were leagues apart.

Mozenrath stood rigid but calm, the shock on his face tempered by caution and heightened awareness. His chin was held high as if trying to rise above the horrible odor of decay, even though he must have been accustomed to such gruesome things after spending so much time in Destane's dungeons. In his cool, alert eyes she could see the calculated patterns of reason and logic falling into place, knitting together a scenario that might explain this unpleasant surprise.

Xerxes was frozen, his open, honest face several shades paler than normal, lips working uselessly into words that were half-curses, half-prayers. He was frozen like a man whose entire world had been turned on its axis. And Jasmine dreaded that that was precisely what had happened.

Mozenrath's arm shot out almost carelessly the same second his friend faltered, catching him before he could collapse onto his knees among the small grains of black sand left over from his teleportation spell.

"Get a hold of yourself," he said, his cold words an echo of his harsh command to Laila. But they were subdued, almost hushed, for even he apparently had not been prepared for a sight like this.

"I…I don't understand," the brown-haired prince stuttered, the strength in his athletic frame reduced to nothing now by the ghastly scene before him. "My father…this shouldn't have happened…what could have…"

That confirmed it. They were at the gates of Galareon, the mountain kingdom, and there had apparently been a violent uprising or attack. And it had already ended, leaving the remains of the defeated lying in the open for all the Deserts to see. As a princess of her own kingdom, Jasmine felt the terrible weight of Xerxes' fear upon her heart. If she ever returned to Agrabah and found it like this…

"We're going to find out what happened," Mozenrath said tightly, gripping Xerxes' shoulder firmly until he mustered the will to stand on his own again. He began to walk forward, raising one hand to force the towering gates open with a spell. They creaked inward with a slow groan, a whisper of the suffering that must have filled the city several days before.

The inside of the kingdom looked the same, if not worse. Fly-infested corpses littered the streets, lying haphazardly against walls, half-in and half-out of doorways, congealed blood smearing the walls of houses and the pavement. Jasmine had never seen such carnage. Even on the day of Helinth's destruction, she had not seen blood, only a storm of black sand, which despite its evil, killed without gore.

The whole place was blanketed in a deathly hush. If there was anyone alive, they were most likely huddling in their homes or in whatever shelters they could find. The three of them were walking into the aftermath of a war, one that had not been instigated by Destane.

Mozenrath's face blanched, though he should have been immune to such a sight. Perhaps he was still able to feel sympathy for others, and felt Xerxes' pain.

He turned toward his friend, who seemed ready to fall any moment.

"You will let me do the talking and killing if necessary. We can't afford to mess this up, or Destane will create even more of a hell for you than this already is."

Shaken, Xerxes merely nodded, eyes helplessly drawn to the sight of his people lying dead and defiled all around him, his imagination no doubt spawning even more horrid images of what might have happened to his family in the midst of all this. How long had he been away from them? Four years? Five? To live through those years under the control of a mad sorcerer, constantly yearning for home, only to return and find it demolished and desecrated…Jasmine could not come close to understanding the magnitude of his pain.

The air around them was oppressive and heavy, as if crowded with the restless spirits of the slain. Fear and despair twisted together in her heart, the overpowering stench of the dead curdling her senses. But she continued to follow the two men through the ghost city, anchoring herself by focusing her gaze on Mozenrath's back, his posture straight and rigid with self-control. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not allowing their grisly surroundings to distract him from reaching their destination.

She had yet to discover why Destane had sent them here, and what exactly had caused an invasion or insurrection of such a devastating scale. Once they reached the palace and learned who was now in power, she was sure to find out.

"Stop looking at the dead and seeing the living."

Mozenrath did not look back as he issued the puzzling command. Jasmine watched the Galareone prince for his reaction; it seemed he was only getting worse, his wide eyes darting everywhere around him, taking in the flood of gruesome images that would undoubtedly haunt his dreams every day thereafter.

"I said stop," Mozenrath repeated. "They're dead bodies, not living people. They're like pieces of wood or metal. Soulless objects, less than Mamluks. Their suffering ended days ago."

"Days ago, they were living people," Xerxes gritted out, his voice trembling with grief and mounting rage. "They were innocent children and elderly who were dragged out into the streets to be slaughtered. They were decent men whose throats were slashed over the simple wares they sold to make a living. There were young girls who were raped to death and left to rot in gutters. They were my people. My people, Mozenrath. How can I refuse to see them?"

Mozenrath stopped walking and turned to face Xerxes directly. His cold, penetrating gaze froze the prince in his tracks.

"Now you know," he said, his voice deadly soft, "why I made that vow so many years ago. And why I have adhered to it to this day."

Xerxes stared back at him, comprehension slowly dawning on his grief-stricken face.

"Hold onto the hate," Mozenrath said, tapping the emblem sewn into Xerxes' dark green tunic, over his heart. "Whatever we end up finding in the palace, you'll need it."

Xerxes seemed to recover slightly, straightening up in defiance of what Mozenrath was implying. "My father was the champion of a thousand battles. He's not—"

"It doesn't matter," Mozenrath cut him off harshly. "My parents were the most powerful wielders of light magic in the Seven Deserts, and Destane still killed them. Your father didn't even try to fight Destane. What makes you think he's so invincible? If he were still alive, would he leave the bodies of his people rotting in the streets and outside the city gates?"

The prince reeled as if struck by a physical blow, the feeble barrier of denial he had tried to sustain easily shattered by Mozenrath's cold reasoning. The young sorcerer continued calmly.

"You'll survive. The world hasn't ended; don't flatter yourself by thinking it did just for you. It keeps turning, even when you think it's crumbled to pieces beneath your feet."

Jasmine bit her lip as her eyes began to water under the soft, crushing weight of his words. He must have been reliving his own past. His initial shock had stemmed not only from sympathy for his friend, but from forced remembrance of that fateful day in his childhood. She caught the almost imperceptible twitch in his voice as he added, "I was seven years old. The world didn't end back then either."

With that, he turned and resumed his trek toward the palace. Xerxes stood silent and still for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching in helplessness at his sides, before he slowly moved one foot forward and began following his friend once again.

The next time Mozenrath spoke, it was with clinical detachment. "There isn't room for error once we reach the palace. You will stay back and let me handle it. We will find out what caused this. And once we know who is in power, we will reestablish the contract and use force if necessary."

"Mozenrath," Xerxes said in a subdued voice. "Those weren't Destane's orders."

"The old fool was too lazy to bother scoping out the situation for himself," Mozenrath suddenly snapped. "The objectives he gave us are no longer valid under the current circumstances."

"On the contrary," Xerxes replied, "I think they're even more valid now."

Mozenrath whirled around again, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "So you're going to give up that easily?"

"I'm just being honest," the prince said, and Jasmine saw that his transparent, candid nature had not changed at all. "He said to go as far as to threaten to kill me if my parents refused to cooperate. But if they're already dead, then he doesn't need to bother with me anymore. Or Galareon, since it's lying in shambles. He can easily find another city to enslave, some other prince or princess to hold captive."

"You are pathetic," Mozenrath spat. "You're just going to give up and die, just like that?"

"What other choice do I have?" Xerxes asked, unfazed by Mozenrath's anger. He sighed, any remaining hope seeming to seep out of him like liquid through a sieve. "At least I'll be able to see my family again."

Mozenrath grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt, jerking him forward so their faces were mere inches from each other.

"You swore loyalty to me," he hissed. "Have you forgotten that already? You said you would do anything to help me kill Destane. Anything. That includes staying alive. Are you going to break your self-righteous little honor code now, you fool?"

Xerxes' eyes had lost their brightness, now staring dully into Mozenrath's incensed gaze.

"It's over, Mozenrath," he said simply. "You can't cover for me this time. If Destane wants to dispose of me, he will."

"That will not happen," Mozenrath said vehemently.

"I'm touched by your open display of concern, but I'm afraid it will," Xerxes said. The cynicism in his voice sounded so wrong, so out of place.

Before Mozenrath could reply, a chorus of gruff, urgent shouts broke them apart. Both of them fell into defensive positions with natural ease. Jasmine looked to both sides of the street and saw at least a dozen heavily armed men closing in rapidly, surrounding the pair with gleaming weapons outstretched in their hands.

Mozenrath sneered in open defiance at them, eyeing their bared steel with contempt as if he were immune to physical attacks. From the looks of them, they were rough, battle-hardened soldiers who had yet to celebrate their hard-won victory over the city.

"Who are you? What is your business here?" the tallest man demanded, his muscular chest covered with tattoos. In his scarred hand he held a long scimitar with a heavily notched blade.

"We have business with your ruler," Mozenrath said curtly. "If you would be so kind as to show us to him…"

"King Shiyamal has no desire to deal with the likes of you scum," a stout, balding man snarled, brandishing two serrated blades. "I know you. You're Destane's errand boy. And you!" He jabbed one sword toward Xerxes. "The son of Tanek the Traitor—the Prince of Ten Thousand Souls! How dare you set foot in this free kingdom!"

Xerxes did not move, receiving the threat in speechless acquiescence. Guilt was painted in clear lines on his youthful face. All these years, he must have been haunted by the thought of so many people sent to their deaths because of him. She could not imagine how it felt to have to face the relatives and friends of those who had died to keep him alive.

"Gentlemen, no violence is necessary here," Mozenrath said evenly. "We only wish to discuss important matters with your king, like civilized men."

The veiled insult did not go unnoticed by the band of musclemen. A lean, beady-eyed man growled a curse and drew back his whip and sent its spiked tip hurtling toward Mozenrath.

She jumped in fear as an ear-splitting crack pierced the air. But she saw that Mozenrath and Xerxes were both unharmed, a magic barrier surrounding them in a faint glow.

"What part of 'civilized' don't you understand?" Mozenrath said. "Or is that word too big for your vocabulary?"

He raised one hand, and the long spiked whip suddenly wrapped itself around the body of its wielder, rendering him immobile. Losing his balance, the man fell on the ground with an enraged shout followed by a scream of pain as the barbed tip dug into his back.

"Take us to your king," Mozenrath commanded, his glare sweeping across the rest of them.

The other men cautiously backed away, lowering their weapons as they knew they could not harm him. But the hatred and distrust on their faces only deepened. It was no wonder they were so bitter. Through the years of sending human tribute payments to an evil sorcerer, unrest had undoubtedly festered in the kingdom, especially among the lower classes. The recent turmoil had likely been caused by a civil war or an uprising. It would have been natural to blame the king and queen and the nobility for protecting themselves and not caring for the common people.

Jasmine's heart stung as she realized again the depth of damage Destane had wrought upon the lives of his captives. Raniye, her body and heart ravaged by the evil sorcerer, had nowhere to turn even if she actually could escape. Laila had gone almost completely mad, her delicate body and mind wasted away. Xerxes, an honest and good-hearted young man, now found his city turned inside out by a blood-soaked uprising that had probably killed off his family.

But the damage did not stop there. Depending on one's perspective, the three royal children were either sacrificial lambs themselves, or idols for which thousands of lambs had been sacrificed. Their parents had had no choice but to cooperate with Destane, as he had the power to wipe out their kingdoms without a second thought. Giving up their children was only a small supplement to ensure their continued cooperation, albeit it was an intensely personal sacrifice. The real insurance policy was that Destane would crush their cities if they did not send the monthly allotment of captives.

In a flash Jasmine saw the core of Destane's ingenious plan at last. He had demanded the children in order to destabilize and fracture the kingdoms from within. Merely threatening to destroy their cities would have served to unite the people and strengthen their will against him. But with the simple stroke of taking one royal captive from each kingdom, he had effectively destroyed the rulers' authority over their own citizens, seeding distrust and resentment among the masses. Rather than viewing Destane as their main enemy, they focused their hate against their monarchs, who appeared blindly selfish and even evil for preserving their own kindred instead of the citizenry. And so he had forced the rulers to devote all their attention and resources to dealing with internal unrest instead of mobilizing to attack him.

Her heart fluttered weakly as she pondered the nightmarish situation Destane had forced upon the parents of Xerxes, Raniye, and Laila, the worst nightmare any ruler could face. He had signed their death warrants once he had taken their children. At the same time, it sickened her to think of all the innocent souls who had been shipped off to slaughter, selected because their low birth marked them as the most expendable and worthless members of society. But the man she loved was low born, a street rat with nothing to his name, and she knew that he and all others of his status were far from worthless. They were all people deserving of dignity. The deep anger of the weapon-wielding men around her was understandable, even if they wrong to direct it at Xerxes.

Seeing that the men still would not move, Mozenrath began walking on of his own accord, ignoring the acrimonious glares and muttered threats. The men in front of him begrudgingly stepped back and followed the sorcerer and their former prince, forming the bizarre semblance of a procession.

She moved closer to walk beside Xerxes, wishing she could lend him more courage. Of all people, he did not deserve to be hated and treated with such contempt. She only hoped that Mozenrath would be able to protect him from his own people when they reached the palace. A sudden chill ran down her spine as she wondered if she was witnessing the day of his death.

They eventually passed into a part of the city that had been cleared of corpses, though the bloodstained ground still stood as a reminder of what had transpired. Weary faces watched them apprehensively from windows and open doorways. Some of the bolder citizens ventured to join them as they headed for the palace, speaking in whispers to each other about what the two young men were here for. Jasmine tensed as several haggard men casually picked up fist-sized rocks from the rubble of demolished houses, their eyes focused intently on the Galareone prince.

The first stone flew from the fist of a young man no older than Mozenrath or Xerxes, whizzing forcefully through the air before either could react. Xerxes flinched as it struck an invisible barrier in the air inches from his heart; Mozenrath's magic had blocked the blow once again. It seemed he had been maintaining an invisible shield over them both all along. Jasmine wondered fleetingly how powerful he was at this point. To sustain a continuous outflow of energy like that must have been taxing. She confirmed that thought once she looked closer at him; though his face was calm and expressionless, his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat.

A barrage of stones struck the barrier and bounced off harmlessly, to the anger of the men who had thrown them. Some approached the pair, brandishing sticks and other makeshift weapons, challenging the sorcerer to let down his magic shield and fight like a real man.

Mozenrath bristled at their insults but did not retaliate. His scowl merely deepened, utter disdain written clearly on his face. Xerxes, on the other hand, was visibly shaken and weakening each minute, buckling under the weight of all the accusations and hatred. More and more people were joining them in the streets as they neared the palace that loomed ahead, and the collective sound of their dissonant, angry voices grew.

"Ignore them," Mozenrath said quietly. "You owe them nothing."

"I owe them my life, Mozenrath," Xerxes responded, his voice shaking. "Ten thousand times over."

"Xerxes," he snapped, raising his voice so his friend could hear him above the crowd. "Who enslaved your city?"

"Destane," he answered, his eyes still full of fear.

"Who forced your parents to sign that contract?"

"Destane…"

"And who killed and desecrated thousands of your people?"

"Destane."

"No," Mozenrath said harshly. "Me. Don't forget that. This sea of hate around us—they want to drown me, not you. They're just too stupid to realize it."

Xerxes was silent, his eyes trained on the back of Mozenrath's head. Mozenrath had succeeded in refocusing his attention on a singular point, gathering the shattered pieces of his composure in a makeshift reconstruction that would hopefully last him through their meeting with the new king. They had finally reached the palace gates, or what was left of them. The giant wooden doors were smashed and splintered, the left side seemingly ready to collapse.

The guards on the walls were shouting to each other, issuing commands within their ranks to inform the king of the unexpected visitors. Dozens of armed soldiers poured out of the gates to confront Mozenrath and Xerxes along with the large crowd around them.

The commander of the group stepped forward with his sword drawn. "State your purpose, sorcerer," he spat.

"An audience with your king," Mozenrath replied coolly. "We will not be long."

"You should not be here at all, demonspawn," one of the soldiers behind him said. "King Shiyamal freed us from bondage to your accursed lord."

"So I've heard. Quite an admirable feat. We wish to congratulate him."

"Do not mock us, boy," the commander said, raising the point of his sword dangerously close to Mozenrath's throat. "We will show you as little mercy as you have shown us."

"I don't need your mercy." Mozenrath began to raise his hand. To his surprise, Xerxes gripped his wrist and pulled his arm down.

"No more violence," he said simply, his gray eyes moving between his friend and the soldier. Mozenrath scowled and yanked his hand out of his grasp, looking away in reluctant compliance. Xerxes looked at the commander and spoke, his voice sincere as always. "Galareon is still my home, though I am no longer welcome by my people. I understand their anger and accept it willingly. But in order to bring closure to the past five years of tragic injustice and horror, I request to meet with the new king and present myself as the humble servant of the people I was born to be. I will accept whatever his will may be for me thereafter."

He ignored Mozenrath's pointed glare, as both of them knew this was not part of their plan. But Mozenrath was smart enough not to object, as this was probably the only way they could get into the palace without using force.

The commander looked at them both suspiciously but withdrew his sword from Mozenrath's throat. "You may meet with the king," he acquiesced, "but we will bind your hands."

"Done," Xerxes replied before Mozenrath could protest, and held out his hands before him. He turned an icy glare toward Mozenrath, the sudden severity in his eyes brooking no argument. Jasmine had never seen such intensity in the prince's normally gentle features. The sorcerer looked livid, but complied wordlessly as a soldier bound a coarse rope around his wrists all the way to the tips of his fingers. She bit her lip in worry; while it prevented him from harming anyone, he would also be unable to protect his friend from attack.

A dozen soldiers marched them through the gates and up the wide front steps of the palace. Once inside, she noticed the faint pink stains on the floor, and realized the heaviest fighting might have taken place not in the streets, but here at the center of power. The palace had merely been cleaned up first.

A bizarre scene awaited them. The inside of the palace was crowded with people, poor men dressed in rags, sitting despondently against the walls, small children scampering around, their skinny limbs streaked with dirt, hard-faced women wearing years of invisible age upon their backs—pictures of poverty Jasmine had never seen until she had ventured outside the palace on her own. There were even makeshift tents scattered along the hall.

They entered the throne room without ceremony, and the commander stepped forward to kneel before the man seated on the throne. Jasmine stared in open surprise. The king looked and dressed exactly like the bedraggled men he had allowed to inhabit his palace. His oily, disheveled hair lay limp around his shoulders. A tattered shirt covered his powerfully built frame, and his pants were of equally worn material. The fabric ended several inches too short, revealing scarred calves and calloused, shoeless feet. He rested his strong chin on disfigured knuckles and leaned forward, cutting off the commander's explanation with a curt wave.

"I know who they are." His voice was low and rough, of a quality similar to Razoul's. His hard gaze focused briefly on Mozenrath, then came to rest on Xerxes. "Why have you returned?"

"Galareon is my home," Xerxes said again, his tone even and calm. "And I wish to—"

"Galareon stopped being your home the moment you stepped out of the city gates and into the land of the cursed," Shiyamal said brusquely. "You have been an enemy of the people for five years. It is a surprise you were not killed on the streets as you made you way here."

Before Xerxes could respond, Shiyamal seemed to dismiss him and turned toward Mozenrath instead. "And why did you come, sorcerer? I should have you gutted where you stand for contaminating this city with your vile presence."

Mozenrath bristled, his thin temper already strained to its limit. Jasmine knew he had only allowed his hands to be bound because of Xerxes. If he had had his way, the soldiers around them would probably be dead or incapacitated along with their new king.

"I came to rejoin my people," Xerxes said, trying to direct the man's attention away from Mozenrath. "And to know what has transpired here since I left. My family—"

"Your parents are dead," the king said flatly. "Some of your relatives managed to flee. My men are looking for them as we speak. One of your uncles is already leading an underground faction of rebels that seeks to reclaim the throne. But I will ensure that does not happen. The people of Galareon will finally have peace and freedom under the leadership of a man who grew up among them and knows them as brothers. They will never again be lorded over by high-born, iron-fisted tyranny. Tyranny that sent ten thousand innocent souls to death and damnation to keep one of their own alive and well." He paused and looked Xerxes up and down with disdain. "You look alive and well, at least."

Xerxes paled at the cold confirmation of what he had suspected. In his eyes, Jasmine saw the same deep-rooted pain and grief she had seen in Mozenrath when the murderer of his parents had affirmed the reality of their fate.

"My parents were good people. You shouldn't have killed them," he said softly. "Destane gave them no choice but to cooperate, or he would have destroyed the city. Whenever I spoke with them, I saw how much it pained my father that he was powerless to save our people."

"Your father was a selfish coward. Men like him do not belong on the throne."

Mozenrath's acerbic voice cut in. "And a piece of street trash like you does?"

Shiyamal stepped off his throne and grabbed the sorcerer by the front of his vest. "Dare to insult me again, sorcerer, and I'll slice off both your hands."

"I'm surprised you haven't lost yours yet from a life of banditry," Mozenrath shot back.

Between the two hot-tempered men, the room had rapidly become a powder keg ready to explode. Xerxes pushed himself between them, holding up his bound hands in a pleading gesture. "Mozenrath, stop. King Shiyamal, please let me speak."

Shiyamal's glare was riveted on the sorcerer, but he let go of his tunic with a careless shove and walked back to his throne. He seated himself sideways, with his legs hanging over one armrest and his head turned just enough to see the two men. His menacing aura suddenly dissipated in Jasmine's eyes; he was acting like a petulant child.

"You should not have killed my parents," Xerxes began, his fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Jasmine sensed a world of grief, regret, and suppressed anger behind those words. He took a breath before speaking again. "But…what is done is done."

He had just voiced the most difficult words she had ever heard from anyone's lips. And he had said them calmly, steadily, detaching his own grief from hard, unchangeable reality.

"I wish to have their remains and give them the proper funeral rites," he continued. Mozenrath stared at him. Jasmine could see him questioning if that was really all Xerxes wanted, if this simple request had been the reason he'd allowed his hands to be bound.

"I don't have their remains," Shiyamal said coldly. "I gave them to the people."

The full weight of the king's reply sank into her heart. She looked toward Xerxes almost fearfully.

The prince was speechless, all vestiges of the polite, diplomatic front he had put up shattered under the deadly implications of the king's words. His gray eyes flickered, blinking away the water that threatened to flow, and slowly hardened into diamonds. Mozenrath watched him silently, for once not intervening.

"I invoke the Code of the Mountains," Xerxes said in an entirely different tone. Hard, flat, emotionless. "I challenge you with all who are present in this room as witnesses."

The king looked at him curiously and broke into derisive laughter. "Why do you even bother, boy? It would be a disgrace to me if I accepted a challenge from you, weak and cowardly as you and all your kin are."

"I challenge you because you do not deserve to sit upon the throne of this kingdom," Xerxes said. "You say you fought for the people against tyranny. But you have already become what you fought against. Hanging corpses outside the city gates as a display of your power? Handing over the bodies of the royal family to be ripped apart by mobs? You will lead this kingdom to ruin."

Shiyamal rose from his throne, furious. "You dare to lecture me? You, a pampered prince who lived in luxury while thousands of the common people died to keep you alive?"

"Whatever I may be doesn't change the horrible things you've done," Xerxes replied bluntly. "You'll never be the king my father was."

The king struck him a ringing blow across the jaw, snapping his head sideways and causing him to stumble back a few steps. In the same second, the guards stepped forward to restrain Mozenrath, who had raised his bound hands in an attempt to cast a spell.

The king paid no attention to the sorcerer as he grabbed Xerxes by the throat and dragged him forward, half-throttling him.

"You're right. I'll never be the self-centered, arrogant blue blood your father was. I'd never keep my own son alive while the entire kingdom suffered. In fact, I sacrificed both my sons to keep you alive, you worthless piece of shit!" he roared, shaking Xerxes like a rag in his strong hands.

The air around them exploded in light, and Jasmine reeled as she was suddenly blinded. She heard the king's shout of surprise along with screams of pain from several soldiers. In the next second all sound was abruptly cut off, and the ground shifted underneath her. Slowly her vision cleared, revealing that they were no longer in the throne room of the Galareone palace. They were back in the cold, vast confines of the Citadel, in the center of a long hallway lined with columns.

Xerxes had collapsed on the floor, clutching his throat with free hands. Mozenrath stood stoically beside him, not offering any help or words of comfort. The ropes on his hands had vanished as well. Perhaps his bonds had not deterred him at all from casting spells, and he had only put up a pretense of harmlessness.

The prince's choking coughs echoed around the walls, mixed with hitched breaths of grief. He slowly stood and braced himself against a wide column, his wavy brown hair a haphazard mess around his face. Tears glistened on his cheeks, finally flowing after the nightmare that had begun at the gates of his home city.

"I have to go back," he rasped, turning toward Mozenrath in agitation. "Take me back there right now."

"No," Mozenrath said. "Not today."

"Damn it, I said take me back now!" Xerxes shouted in his friend's face. "I invoked the highest code of my kingdom against that son of a bitch! I have to—"

"Not. Today," Mozenrath gritted out tensely. "Think, Xerxes, think. You were right when you said that man will not stand as the ruler of your people for long. He will be cast down as the uncouth, low-born tyrant he is. While you were busy salaaming to that piece of street trash, I was observing the people around us, the so-called court officials he has gathered from the streets and gutters as his close advisors. It is painfully obvious that he does not have their respect or their fear. He has no legitimate claim over the throne other than his brute strength and an empty promise to stand for the people. Galareon will soon be mired in another bloodbath, Xerxes. You just have to wait until the turmoil is over, and then you can return to avenge your family and ascend the throne as the rightful ruler of the kingdom."

"I don't want revenge. I don't want to rule over anyone. I just want all the killing and violence to stop. For everything to go back to the way it was. I want my city in peace. I want my people to stop killing each other. I just—"

"Can you wake up already?" Mozenrath snapped. "I can't believe after all these years you still haven't woken up from that idyllic dream. There is no such thing as peace, you fool. There is only the never-ending struggle for power. If you want to enforce your ludicrous ideals over your kingdom, you will first need power to defeat all who oppose you, and establish your authority without question. Not to mention you will need even more power to sustain that authority. But for someone as ambitionless and simple-minded as you, it's impossible."

Xerxes was silent, water trickling down the smooth plane of his cheeks, his gray eyes placid and unblinking. "You're right. I've never woken up. I don't think…I don't think I want to."

Mozenrath gave him a violent shake. "Get a hold of yourself! Remember that you pledged yourself to my cause. If nothing else, let that be your reason to live and break out of your little delusional world. There isn't much time left to wait, Xerxes. The harvesting is almost complete. We'll both be free soon."

"I'm sorry, Mozenrath. I don't think I can help you…I don't care for freedom anymore. There's nothing for me to live for."

Mozenrath let go of his shoulders with a curse and turned away, slamming his fist into another pillar in anger and frustration. He was trying to give his friend hope in the same way he had given himself hope as a young child who had lost everything. But revenge and power meant nothing to Xerxes. Despite the depth of their friendship, this essential difference between them would always stand. It must have frustrated Mozenrath to no end that his friend seemed to have no aspirations, no willpower to try to change his own circumstances for the better. Looking into his harrowed face, she caught another layer of emotion. Worry.

Xerxes had said that Destane would probably dispose of him now that his parents were gone and Galareon would no longer send tribute payments. And while the prince himself seemed ready to accept whatever fate Destane had in store for him, Mozenrath was far from willing to see that happen. But there was no time; he was still unprepared to overthrow Destane, and he very well might be helpless to save his friend.

Jasmine turned at the sound of soft footsteps behind her. The Chyrilian princess was approaching them, the long claret skirt of her dress swishing behind her. Her midnight eyes questioned Mozenrath for an explanation, but he turned away from her without a word. Her gaze fell on Xerxes then, who stared back at her blankly.

With gentle fingers, she brushed the moisture from his face and let her palm rest against his cheek. She spoke in a soothing tone too soft for Jasmine to hear, but whatever she said drew a weak smile to his weary face. Despite the darkness of all that had transpired, Jasmine felt a warm glow in her heart at the sight of her comforting him.

Raniye let her hand fall to her side as she turned toward Mozenrath, who still had his back turned to them. "Destane requires your presence at dinner."

"Tell the old fool I'm not coming," was his curt reply.

"Mozenrath," Raniye said quietly. "You cannot keep doing this."

"What's he going to do to me? Incapacitate me for a week and then realize yet again that he needs me for half his spells?"

"You need to be there in case he does anything in the mood he's in right now," she said edgily, her eyes avoiding Xerxes.

Mozenrath took the hint and turned around with a sullen glare. "With the mood I'm in right now, I might just incapacitate him."

Their surroundings changed to the high-ceilinged dining room of the Citadel, the black crystal chandelier casting its eerie light over the wooden table already lined with food. They seated themselves silently in the same arrangement as on the day Raniye and Xerxes had first arrived. Destane's chair at the head of the table was empty. Laila was not present either; Jasmine wondered briefly whether she could even join them in normal functions at this point.

She stood beside Raniye's chair to observe them all clearly. They sat straight and still, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Despite Mozenrath's insolent attitude, it was obvious he was deeply worried about what Destane might do, especially if he was in a worse mood than usual. At the same time, Jasmine could see his frustration and even self-anger at the thought he was not yet powerful enough to counter his master's whims.

Power was the key to freedom, he had said. To Xerxes and Raniye, the potential of gaining freedom was the only reason they might be interested in it, and it seemed Mozenrath had capitalized on this point as much as he could, using them for his own goal of revenge. At the same time, he wasn't only interested in gaining power on his own behalf. He wanted to be able to set them all free. Jasmine dreaded to find out how this would all end.

"Just in case I don't get the chance later," Xerxes spoke up quietly, "I just want to say thanks to both of you. For everything."

Mozenrath glared at him sharply as Raniye reached across the table to cover Xerxes' hand in her own. Jasmine's heart skipped several beats at the gravity of his words. She felt terribly unprepared for what was to come. The ominous mood hanging over them seemed to siphon away the breathable air, leaving her inhaling and exhaling shallowly, her eyes helplessly riveted on the young man who was readying himself for the inevitable.

Before Mozenrath could reply, the nonchalant voice of the Lord of the Black Sand addressed him.

"I expect you have accomplished your mission, Mozenrath?"

He materialized in a swirl of smoke, sliding easily into his chair at the head of the table. A span of several years had passed since Jasmine had last seen him. His close-cropped gray hair was streaked with white now, his regal face more visibly lined with age. His icy blue gaze swept over the three of them briefly before coming to rest on his apprentice.

Mozenrath stiffened slightly, returning his master's calculating look with a blank expression. "We discovered why the contract was broken. There was an insurrection. The royal family was killed, and a commoner and his ragtag band of followers have taken power."

Destane's expression did not change. Jasmine fought the urge to back away from the sorcerer. She had not yet seen him in such a frightening mood. In past scenes he had been serious at times, but always with a streak of dark humor and flippancy that took the edge off his threatening aura. At the moment, the air was slowly freezing under the concentrated, deadly intensity that emanated from him.

"And your other objective." The question was spoken as a statement of expectation. An expectation that Mozenrath and Xerxes had not met.

"It is too early to reestablish the contract," Mozenrath said. "The unrest has not yet ended. When the city settles its internal conflicts, we will go back again to ensure its compliance."

Destane raised one eyebrow as he began his dinner. "Is that your own idea? Because that wasn't my order."

Mozenrath clenched his jaw. "It is the sensible thing to do."

The wine goblet paused on the way to the sorcerer's lips. "Verbally adept as ever, my dear apprentice. Care to continue that thought? I'm always intrigued by your veiled insinuations."

Raniye bit her lip as she demurely lowered her gaze to the table, not touching her food. The tension was growing with each second that ticked by.

Mozenrath took a measured breath and backtracked. "I meant that it would be wise to wait for the power structures of the kingdom to stabilize. It would be impossible to enforce a contract now, as power will frequently change hands throughout the coming months."

"If that is true, then there won't be much of a citizenry left to draw captives from, no?"

Xerxes had picked up his fork and was eating calmly as if it were a normal day, as if he were blissfully unaware of the fact his friend and his master were essentially discussing his fate.

"The lower classes breed like vermin," Mozenrath said. "It will not be a problem."

Jasmine bristled at his harsh words, offended by the bluntness of his judgment. But suddenly she began to see the parallels.

He had always shown such scorn for Aladdin, not only because they were enemies, but because of Aladdin's lowborn status. His contempt for the street rat bled into his condescending attitude toward her as well, since she was a princess willingly engaged to an uneducated, unrefined commoner.

She thought of Galareon's new king, dressed in rags and seated sideways on the throne as if it were a divan. She thought of his utter lack of diplomacy and many other deficiencies that would inevitably lead to his downfall. And she thought of how unprepared her own fiancé was to lead the kingdom as its first lowborn sultan, how he had always seemed to fall back on Genie as the cure-all for his own weaknesses and troubles. He was not a murderer or a violent man by any means, but he was still a commoner who knew little of governance and diplomacy.

Was that what Mozenrath saw when he looked at Aladdin? A simple-minded street rat utterly undeserving of the power that had been handed to him on a silver platter? Not only the power of a jinni, but power over an entire kingdom through marriage to a princess? Was that why Mozenrath detested all of them so much?

But as she looked at Xerxes, she realized that he and Aladdin were actually quite similar. Both were adept at reading people and able to get along with just about anyone, both were genuine and kind, and both were willing to see the good instead of the bad in others.

Yet Xerxes would die, while Aladdin still lived, surviving miraculously through disaster after disaster and soundly defeating all his enemies. For the first time, Jasmine could understand part of Mozenrath's bitterness toward her fiancé. Why did a street rat receive such favor from fate, while an equally pure-hearted prince had had to suffer until he finally lost hope and relinquished his will to live?

"A touching plea masked as an argument," Destane said thoughtfully. His eyes shifted toward Xerxes then, watching the prince's stoic profile with mild interest. "But not convincing enough. I have no use for a shattered kingdom. The turmoil will soon drag the populace into poverty and starvation, a point you forgot to consider in your well-improvised defense, Mozenrath. Any slaves the city sends will likely die from hunger or fatigue en route, and the ones that do manage to arrive will be unfit for service in their emaciated condition. In short, Galareon is obsolete. And so, unfortunately, are you, Prince Xerxes."

Mozenrath raised his hand at the exact moment Destane did, returning his master's surprised look with a defiant stare. No magic had left their palms, but the tension in the air condensed tenfold. Jasmine stood beside Raniye, whose hands now clutched her heart, watching the standoff speechlessly. Was this the first time Mozenrath had openly challenged his master?

"Stand aside," Destane ordered plainly.

Mozenrath did not move. "There is no reason to kill him."

"Oh, I can think of a few," the sorcerer laughed, calculating glee strung through the chilling sound. Mozenrath dropped the composed veneer he always maintained around his master, now wearing an expression of unadulterated hatred. Destane smiled cruelly. "Like the fact you need to be reminded of your place, insolent brat."

He bent his index finger halfway down, signaling the beginning of a spell. Jasmine backed away instinctively while Raniye and Xerxes remained riveted to their seats, neither of them seeming to draw breath as they awaited the outcome of the standoff.

Mozenrath stood quickly, his right hand curled into a fist as he chanted an incantation, and a glowing shield flared to life around him and Xerxes.

Destane did not move from his chair, a look of malicious amusement on his face as his index finger touched his palm. He spoke one quick word, and Mozenrath screamed.

The glowing barrier vanished immediately before Mozenrath fell, his chair screeching across the stone floor as he slammed into it sideways. He doubled over in intense pain, clutching his stomach as if trying to keep his innards from spilling out of a mortal wound. Raniye's scream of shock and worry echoed against the high ceiling as Jasmine ran to his side, dreading how much damage he had sustained. Xerxes was kneeling beside his friend, shouting at him to break free of whatever torturous spell Destane had cast on him, gripping his shoulder but utterly helpless to do anything.

Mozenrath abruptly turned on his side, away from Xerxes, and a gush of blood erupted from his lips, splattering across the floor. Jasmine jumped back in horror, unable to take her eyes off his twisted form writhing in agony in a puddle of his own blood. Through the deafening rhythm of her heart in her ears, she could faintly make out Raniye's desperate voice begging Destane to stop.

The sharp sound of the sorcerer's laughter broke her gaze away from Mozenrath. She stared at his grin of sadistic pleasure, and the wave of black hate that surged within her was enough to drown out the darkest emotions she had felt prior to this. She could not believe that a man like Destane had existed. He had to have been a demon, not a human being.

"I'm disappointed in you, boy. You forgot one of your first lessons. Always expect the unexpected," he gloated, standing from his chair and moving forward slowly. He looked down with contempt at Mozenrath's crumpled form. "Really, have you ever known me to be the predictable type? You were so focused on protecting your friend from external spells that you didn't bother with any internal defenses. Well, I must say it is amusing to see a streak of altruism in you. I suppose I didn't do as good of a job as I thought in hammering out your weaknesses. But it isn't too late to fix that."

His eyes focused on Xerxes, who crouched protectively over Mozenrath's shaking body, staring defiantly back at the sorcerer who had made all their lives a living hell.

"You've served your purpose, young prince. You gave me ten thousand slaves, and you've helped keep my devious little apprentice in check. And now, you'll help me teach him a much-needed lesson," Destane said with a hollow smile.

Mozenrath mustered the strength to lift his head from the cold stone of the floor, half his face dripping in crimson fluid. "You bastard…" he rasped. Weakly shoving Xerxes' hands away from him, he tried to rise to his knees, only to collapse again as Destane recast his torment spell.

"Please stop, my lord!" Raniye pleaded, tugging at his arm. He ignored her completely and raised one hand toward Xerxes. The prince's eyes went wide as dark violet fire shot forth from Destane's palm and straight toward him.

Jasmine was thrown backwards as an enormous blast shook the room, her vision going black and hazy for several seconds in the aftermath of the killing spell.

_No!_

Xerxes was gone. Simply gone. The floor behind Mozenrath where the prince had been was a wide streak of charred stone. His chair had been blasted to pieces, blanketing the floor with splinters and dust.

Apparently free from the torture spell, Mozenrath whirled around, crouching over the blackened space and searching wildly for his friend…or what might have remained of him. Raniye rushed to his side, kneeling in blood and shattered wood, and cried out in shock at what she was the first to discover.

Xerxes' clothing lay in a pile underneath the smashed remains of his chair. Mozenrath immediately snatched it from the floor, and Jasmine gasped at what he uncovered.

At first glance, the long gray shape coiled there could have been mistaken for a severed intestine or some other bloated internal organ. But she knew only too clearly what Xerxes had actually become.

Mozenrath's familiar. An eel.

The creature lay as still and silent as Mozenrath and Raniye, who stared in blank shock at what remained of their friend. Behind them, Destane finally spoke.

"What a pleasant last surprise," he mused, and Jasmine realized that the result of the spell was not what he had intended. "What could have modified a killing spell to such an extreme degree?"

Mozenrath reached forward and picked something off the floor with a trembling hand. Jasmine recognized the small plant by its dried leaves. Iyaliv. The weed Mozenrath and Xerxes had gathered in the mountains years before. It seemed that Xerxes had been serious about pocketing some of it. But why had he been carrying it on his person that day?

"No…" Mozenrath whispered, crushing the plant in his fist.

"Ah. The volatility of that plant will never cease to intrigue me," Destane said casually. "Well, it seems this unexpected result is actually better than what I had originally planned. I think I'll let him—or it, I suppose—live."

He gestured with his hand in a lightning quick reaction to Mozenrath's attempt at a spell, cutting off his apprentice's incantation with an immobilizing blast.

"I wasn't finished speaking," he said curtly, looking down with scorn at the younger sorcerer's twitching form. "I haven't yet shared the lesson I wanted to teach you."

His inhuman gaze settled on Raniye as he smiled with barely concealed malice, his smooth voice lined with a menacing undertone. "Don't keep anyone too close. Because if they don't stab you in the back, someone else will stab you through them."

A chill ran through Jasmine's veins as she realized Destane knew of or at least suspected the relationship between his apprentice and the princess. Mozenrath went still, and Raniye stared at the floor, not daring to move under the intensity of her master's gaze.

And then Destane turned away from them both and vanished with a curt wave of his hand.

Time resumed its steady tick, and Mozenrath immediately turned his attention back toward Xerxes. His lower body still incapacitated, he dragged himself over on his arms. He raised his hands painfully over the prone gray body of the eel, somehow still able to draw power from within to set his palms alight with a gentle golden glow. It was the healing magic his master could not use. Jasmine knelt down beside Raniye as Mozenrath tried in vain to reverse the transformation spell.

The glow flickered and died after several seconds, and Mozenrath cursed, forcing more power into his palms. Raniye placed a hand on his shoulder, speaking gently. "Stop, Mozenrath. You know the Iyaliv—"

He flinched away from her touch. "Don't," he said viciously.

She drew back in slight shock, slowly folding her hands in her lap. Their eyes met in silence for several seconds. Hers were filled with tears, while his were dry and terribly cold.

"It's over," he said simply.

The impact of his words was like a physical blow, a sharp point burying itself in Jasmine's heart even though he had spoken them to Raniye, not her. She felt something shatter inside as she watched the Chryilian princess, her fair skin now glistening from the outflow of her grief. Destane knew about them. Both of them were clearly terrified by the potential consequences of this dreaded fact. And though the familiar iron walls had barricaded the young sorcerer's emotions once again, Jasmine knew it must have shattered his heart as much as it did Raniye's. There was no telling what Destane might do, how he might use Raniye against him the way he had done with Xerxes. At last, Jasmine saw the final facet of Destane's ingenious plan in keeping the royal children captive. To keep his own apprentice in check. To hold their lives and wellbeing over his head, and to effectively thwart him from carrying out any vengeful scheme to overthrow him. Jasmine felt the remains of her hope vanish into mist, knowing Mozenrath was helpless to do anything to protect Raniye or himself from whatever plot Destane might have in store for them. But there was only so much one could do, only so much pain one could take in such a devastatingly short time. With the two simple words he had just spoken to Raniye, he had done all that he could do for now. By cutting himself off from her completely.

Mozenrath turned from her and resumed his attempts to revive Xerxes. The vast room was silent for several minutes, all of them broken and crippled in their own way, watching the still form of the Galareone prince.

"Everything good eventually turns to ash," Raniye said softly into the hollowed silence. "Why?"

Jasmine closed her eyes. The princess' words sank into her consciousness with the immutable power of truth. They were surrounded by so much death. Thousands sent to their graves to serve the whims of a sinister madman. A young prince used as a mere tool for gathering bodies and souls, his fate sealed when his usefulness expired. The unlikely love between a sorcerer and a princess, a seed struggling to grow and survive in harsh black sands, now finally crushed in a single stroke. Whispers and jarring symphonies of death were imbued in the very essence of this land. It was what gave their lives definition, though there was no rhyme or reason to it.

In the cold light of Mozenrath's eyes, Jasmine could see that a new story was beginning now, its pages speckled with blood and sinuous whispers of death. Whatever influence Xerxes might have had on him, the ideals the prince had so adamantly held onto were lost to him permanently now. They had failed him for the last fateful time.

His face was a mask of concentration as he focused solely on the latest spell he had attempted. He touched two fingers to the smooth gray skin of the eel, and a current of blue energy flowed forth to surround the length of its body. The creature stirred, slowly uncoiling, and began to lift into the air.

Jasmine watched in dreadful fascination as it turned its disfigured head and opened his mouth, now a bloated mockery of human lips, the inside lined with jagged teeth. The blue glow disappeared, and its eyes snapped open, discolored pupils taking in its surroundings with sudden alertness. Upon seeing the two humans, it drew back and snarled, baring its uneven teeth. The guttural sounds that issued from its throat bore no resemblance to the prince's voice.

Raniye's hand flew to her mouth, her face draining of all color. "Xerxes…" She reached one hand forward hesitantly, and cried out in surprise as Mozenrath slapped it away. Xerxes' jaws snapped at the empty air where her fingers had just been.

The eel eyed Mozenrath warily, seemingly afraid of him. A feeble hope fluttered in Jasmine's heart; perhaps a tidbit of memory still remained in its brain. The eel familiar she knew from the present time was unswervingly loyal to Mozenrath, and had the capacity for speech as well. But the way it looked now…it appeared as mute and savage as any wild creature.

Mozenrath extended one hand toward the eel, speaking softly in a language Jasmine could not understand. Its beady eyes darted from the sorcerer's blood-streaked face to his outstretched fingers, and slowly, very slowly, it slithered toward him through the air, coiling itself tentatively around his arm.

"Do you remember who you are?" Mozenrath asked, his voice betraying no emotion. His unrelenting stare caused the eel to shrink back in trepidation. "Do you remember anything? Anything at all?"

Raniye let out a sob as Mozenrath suddenly grabbed the eel by the throat with his other hand, shouting desperately in its frightened face. "Can you even talk?! Say something!"

It screeched as Mozenrath gave it a violent shake, and whimpered in pain when he finally shoved it away with a disgusted curse. The sorcerer stood abruptly, his knees buckling slightly as the effects of Destane's spell had not yet worn off, and promptly disappeared from the room. The eel blinked fearfully, floating away from the spot where Mozenrath had just been. It glanced around bewildered as if trying to find him again, and noticed Raniye's outstretched hand instead. It did not snap at her this time as she reached forward and stroked its ugly head, speaking to it in soothing tones.

"Your name is Xerxes," she said. With infinite patience she coaxed it into her lap, the crimson folds of her dress stained an even deeper red by Mozenrath's blood. She looked down into its perplexed eyes with a sad smile, and repeated softly, "Your name is Xerxes. And that man was Mozenrath. You were friends."

Her breath hitched in her throat as she fought back her tears.

"You _are_ friends," she whispered. "You're still alive, Xerxes. I know you're in there somewhere."

She closed her eyes and raised her tear-streaked face toward the dark chandelier suspended in deathly silence overhead.

"It's not over yet."


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The texture of the cold stone floor began to disintegrate into fine grains of sand, shifting around her though there was no breeze in the Citadel. She did not move from her place beside the Chyrilian princess, watching the infinite sadness in her eyes as she held Xerxes in silence. There were no words left to mourn the loss of the prince. Another innocent life swallowed up by the unrelenting sands of this cursed land. When would it end?

The princess' simple words affirmed that it was not over, would not be over for a time to come. Her words were threaded with both hope and despair, twin sentiments that could no longer be separated in this blackened desert where nothing truly lived. All of their lives had been reduced to bare existence, waking and breathing and suffering.

It was not over, because Destane still drew breath, and Mozenrath had yet to fulfill the vow he had made on that fateful day he had first set foot in this dark kingdom.

It was not over, because Destane still drew breath, and had yet to kill them all and inject their souls into his ultimate weapon.

The sand swept over the folds of Raniye's crimson dress and her delicate hands that held what had once been her friend. It rose in waves into a soundless whirlwind, condensing further until Jasmine could no longer see the young woman sitting beside her. At last, she was too weary to move, burdened with the weight of history she was not meant to relive. So she did not rise from the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her face against them as the sand surrounded her entirely in a desert cocoon.

She shut her eyes, wishing that everything around her would go still for just a brief moment, to allow her to rest in blessed sleep. Though she had vowed to persevere, there was only so much the human mind and heart could take before they broke apart and collapsed. She found that the last several steps she had taken toward the edge were because of Mozenrath, not her own life. Her past had become a confusing, heart-wrenching blur, but the overwhelming darkness that pervaded his had utterly sapped her of strength and spirit. In her mind she saw that the backdrop of the expansive black sands was merely an illusion; it was actually a narrow tunnel that darkened with each year that passed, trapping him and the two people he loved within its lightless walls, forcing them to continue on where hope would suffocate from lack of light and air.

She had shut out all sight, but she had not shut out sound. Strangely, she heard a melody threading through the gravelly waves of sand wrapping tightly around her. It seemed to reverberate in each granule that brushed her skin, a faint song she had heard before.

The somber quality of the melody weaved through her senses, reaching deep within her to stir the subdued sea of passion that had grown stagnant in her heart, reminding her of a distant memory she could not quite define. The song was beautiful, but laced with sorrow and haunted with long pauses, as if the voice that gave the ethereal tune life were slowly dying. She opened her eyes and felt the sand receding from her skin, each grain echoing in harmony with the nameless song.

The stone floor beneath her softened, and she shifted her legs to feel a familiar texture of fabric against the skin of her ankles. The sands left her completely, but the song remained in the eerily displaced voice of a man she knew.

_**Tell me, Princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?**_

Her heart lurched in warning within her, at the melody that was no longer sweet in sorrow, but tense and sinister. It was wrong, the sound of his voice superimposed on a warped, off-key mockery of his first proclamation of love for her.

Her vision cleared into a dark sky dotted with stars and the faint outlines of buildings beneath her as the wind caressed her face. But it was all wrong, an illusion that had swirled into place under the power of the haunting melody in her ear. The words sounded false in their minor key and lifeless tone.

She turned and looked into his eyes, their warm depths exposing his heart to her freely, and she saw that he did not hear what she did. He smiled and gently held a flower to her face, the white-petaled bloom that was her namesake. She stared at it, her hands subconsciously grasping its stem, and for a split-second, speckles of red adorned its pure white petals. She blinked and the illusion was gone, leaving a hollow pit inside her to fill with fear. The music had to stop. Its sinister sound was plainly terrifying, discoloring the wonderful memory of this night when the true magic in her life had begun.

She placed an urgent hand on his shoulder, stopping his voice with a look of desperate fear. At once the music died, leaving no echo, and all she heard was the rushing of the wind and the pounding of her own heart.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes full of concern.

She stared at him, shaken but grateful that he was with her and that he was not warped in character and conduct by the Mirror.

"I…" she hesitated, taking in a calming breath. "I'm afraid."

He looked more concerned, and the magic carpet slowed down of its own accord, also noticing that something was wrong. He placed an arm around her shoulders protectively, drawing her close to him while taking care not to cross over the line from chivalry to intimacy.

"I'm sorry I frightened you. We were going really fast," he said, still bewildered by her sudden change in mood. "But don't worry, I won't let you fall. The carpet's going slower now."

She was torn between two instincts, to cling to him and weep for all that had broken inside her and around her, and to push him away and prevent any more harm from coming to her through this puppet the Mirror had created out of her fiancé. He looked and felt like the Aladdin she knew and had fallen deeper in love with on that magical night. But she knew that this was just another cruel game, a game that would undoubtedly end in pain and loss.

"Uh…" he said, clearly discomfited by her silence. "Do you want to go back?"

She closed her eyes in tiredness, leaning into the warm embrace she had grown into over the years, and gave in to her first instinct. If the Mirror had portrayed her enemies down to exact detail, then it likely portrayed her loved ones with the same accuracy. She did not have to fear him; she only had to fear their destination, what would happen at the end of the carpet ride. So she allowed him to hold her, pressing her face against the smooth fabric of his princely robes.

He stroked her hair gently, still uneasy about her sudden anxiety, and stayed silent until she was ready to speak.

She realized then that she could say and do anything she wanted. If she would lose her memories of him, she could at least savor the time she had with him in this haunting illusion.

"Where are you from, Ali?" she asked softly.

He squirmed slightly at the pointed question, not knowing it was a deliberate test. She smiled in spite of herself. He had never been able to lie well in front of her.

"A kingdom that just recently established relations with Agrabah," he answered, avoiding her eyes. "It's pretty far away; I don't think you've heard of it."

She decided not to ask him the name of his imaginary kingdom. "I see. It must have been a long hard journey to get here then."

"Yeah," he said, relieved that she hadn't pursued the issue further. He smiled and slipped into his customary charm. "It was worth it, though."

Her eyes traced the elaborate patterns of the magic carpet under the moonlight. "You really think so?"

"Best decision I've ever made in my life," he confessed, brushing her hair back from her face with a gentle hand. "I've never met anyone like you, Jas…Princess."

Her heart skipped a beat, half-suspecting that he was not telling the truth. Images rose unbidden into her mind, a view of a smoky room tinted the color of wine, the sight of this upright, kindhearted young man captivated by another woman.

"Do you mean that?" she asked, finally looking into his eyes again.

The hesitation that flickered there belied his answer. "Of course. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on…beautiful in every way."

She did not smile as she continued. "But you've known me for less than an hour."

"A man would have to be a blind fool not to see how beautiful you are within the first few seconds of meeting you."

She sighed, unable to prevent a light smile from touching her lips at his natural charm and way with words. But she had to dig deeper, now that she had this unique chance, free of the consequences of reality.

"Ali, have you ever been in love before?"

Again, the guilty hesitation in his eyes gave him away. A long second of silence passed, and he answered her honestly this time. "Yes…I have."

His words were both a liberating breath and a crushing blow to her heart. She kept her expression even and calm, still acting the stranger, the guarded princess reluctantly allowing a foreign prince to court her.

"Tell me about her."

"Princess, this doesn't mean I love you any less…"

"I know," she said as her mind silently repeated, _but_ _you've known me for less than an hour._

He watched her nervously, his arm suddenly feeling uncomfortable around her shoulders, as if he were suspected of some offense.

"She…" he trailed off, struggling to find a starting point. "I was young. Younger than now…I mean, that's obvious…I met her when she was in trouble. She owed someone a lot of money and couldn't pay…her life was in danger. I…I had to save her. I promised her I would."

It took all her willpower to fight back the tears that threatened to well in her eyes. As she listened to each word, she heard the story of another woman superimposed on her own life somehow. She realized with a sinking heart that she could not remember how she and Aladdin had met. The Mirror must have taken away that memory. But somehow his words had struck a nerve, resonating in the torn fabric of her mind.

"She was flawed and made a lot of mistakes…some really hurtful mistakes. But to me that's what made her beautiful. She didn't really have a choice to be any other way. She was trapped by her circumstances, like a bird in a cage, and she couldn't escape. I thought…I thought I could set her free," he said, sending another poignant spear of regret and forgotten memory through Jasmine's heart. She saw the unguarded sorrow in his eyes as he continued. "But in the end I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't strong enough to break her chains."

"What happened to her?" Jasmine asked quietly.

"She died."

There was silence for several seconds, and Jasmine did not intrude upon it, giving him time to gather his voice again.

"She couldn't pay back her debt. And I couldn't save her."

Jasmine placed her hand over his and spoke with full sincerity. "I'm sorry." He nodded silently, his eyes lowered to the carpet, for once absent of words. She interlaced her fingers with his. "Thank you for telling me."

They glided on wordlessly for a minute, passing over endless dunes of glittering, windswept sand, though neither of them was truly focused on their surroundings. The midnight sky twinkled far above with numberless stars, cold and distant and clear.

"What about you?" Aladdin asked, still holding her against his shoulder. She turned her head so she could see him better. "Have you ever been in love?"

She looked down at their intertwined fingers, how her delicate skin contrasted with the rough calluses on his palm. "Yes, I have."

"Tell me about him."

She smiled wistfully as she thought about him and all he meant to her, a diamond cultured and refined in rough sand and harsh fires. His heart had been great enough to love a broken woman who'd hurt him repeatedly, trapped in an underground world of sin and deceit far away from the sheltered walls of a royal palace. He'd been naïve and hopeful despite the hard, sobering life he had been born into, while many others at his age would have forsaken all sense of morality and dignity to immerse themselves in that sordid world. She couldn't be angry with him, though her heart still stung painfully from the knowledge that she was not his only love.

"He was a good man, and very brave. He had a heart of gold that nothing could tarnish. He showed me the world outside my little window from the palace, and saved me from the bitter, petty person I might have become. But he always believed in me and let me fly free, not smothering or sheltering me. He loved me for who I was; he saw me as a woman, not a princess." She paused, watching him digest all this solemnly. She could see him wondering if he still had a chance with her at all. "But where I am now, I don't think even he could save me."

"What…happened to him?" he asked hesitantly.

"Nothing," she said, and watched the hope dwindle further in his eyes. "I still love him."

He almost fell off the carpet in shock as she tilted her head upward and kissed him, soft and slow, with all the hidden intensity of a suppressed flame, and leaned deeper into him, opening the gates of her heart that had been shattered and rebuilt too many times to count. She poured all her broken passion and wounded love into the kiss, and felt him begin to respond, his hands encircling her waist to hold her closer and savor his first taste of her.

They finally parted, and she looked into his confused, flushed face with a sad smile. The sand was already creeping along the carpet, wrapping her ankles in its abrasive grains, and would soon take her away, perhaps along with her memory of this night.

"Goodbye, Ali," she said softly, and caught a last glimpse of his handsome face before the sand covered it all, sweeping the carpet from beneath her and leaving her in the suffocating embrace of a sandstorm.

The Mirror did not take away the memory. Perhaps because it was not a memory at all, but a scene she had crafted with her free will, uncovering the hidden secret in her fiancé's past at last. It both relieved and crushed her at the same time, but in her current state, another crushing experience pushed her that much closer to the edge. She closed her eyes, holding herself back from falling over that precipice. There was not much longer to wait; she could sense it in the deepest fibers of her being. She just had to hold out a little longer, and she would be free.

Her vision slowly cleared, adjusting to the blackness around her. She was standing in a spacious, dark room lit dimly by several torches scattered around the walls. Drawn by movement to her left, she turned to see Mozenrath's silhouette, just straightening up to his full height. She noticed he had shorn his hair, curly waves no longer flowing around his shoulders but clipped below his ears, about the length of Aladdin's. He was clad in all black, a long robe wrapped tightly at the waist. He held something by the tips of his fingers up to the light; it appeared to be a ball of fine silver string, glittering transparently in the orange flame. The fibers were thinner than any substance she had ever seen. Studying it for another moment, he rolled it into his palm, and it disappeared. She caught a glance of his face as he turned away from the table, and she froze at the look in his eyes. Long shadows danced across his refined features, enhancing the chilling aura emanating from his midnight irises. In them she saw no mercy, no care, no humanity. She saw nothing.

He walked toward his bed in the far corner, and Jasmine saw that there was another figure huddled there. Following him, she drew back in consternation as she saw it was Laila. Her gaze flew questioningly to Mozenrath. Had he stooped so low in the span of the time that had passed to take this mad girl to bed? No, he would not have. The cold look in his eyes confirmed that his utter scorn for Laila had not faded one bit; he looked displeased that he even had to bear her presence in his chamber. He must have had some other kind of use for her tonight. The mysterious ball of string and the presence of the broken princess only added to Jasmine's suspicions. This was probably the night that he would finally put his plan for revenge into action.

Another movement attracted her eye, and she saw the lithe form of Xerxes approaching, slithering through the flickering shadows in the air. Mozenrath hardly spared him a glance before focusing on Laila. From the timid fear in the eel's countenance, it was obvious that they were no longer really friends; they were now master and servant.

The girl's ashen face was completely blank as if she were in a deep trance. Mozenrath stepped back and raised one hand, and the princess wordlessly rose to her feet, coming to stand before him. Xerxes floated nervously around him, clearly wanting to draw nearer but not daring to intrude on his master's work.

Mozenrath opened his hand and the ball of string appeared once again. It hung in the air and began to unravel slowly, free of his touch, the long silvery strands floating outward around Laila's small, thin form. Layer after layer coiled around her face, shimmering transparently like a spiderweb, the strings attaching to her throat and winding their way upward around her jaw, sallow cheeks, lifeless eyes, and her forehead, up to hre hairline. When her face was sufficiently covered in the flickering string, Mozenrath made a curt gesture to stop the motion of the unraveling ball. The strings gleamed in the light one last time before disappearing. He chanted several words, one hand resting on Laila's forehead, tracing a quick pattern with his thumb. He lowered his hand and turned away from her, beckoning Xerxes to him.

He repeated the process with Xerxes, though the eel remained fully conscious. The strands of silver wrapped themselves along the length of the eel's body, and Xerxes twitched uncomfortably only to be reprimanded with a clipped word. Cowering, the familiar kept still obediently, allowing his master to finish the spell. Mozenrath's hand brushed the eel's head, chanting another incantation, but this time he traced a different pattern.

He stepped back, seemingly satisfied with his work, and sent the ball of string back into invisibility. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Jasmine watched him carefully, expecting another spell to weave through the air. Nothing happened. She waited, observing the slight tension building in his brow as he focused his power and his thoughts. He looked like he was searching for something.

His eyes snapped open in a flash of triumph, and with a hurried snap of his fingers he disappeared from the room, taking Xerxes and Laila along with him. Jasmine followed a split-second later, feeling the familiar disorientation of teleportation sweep her off balance.

She landed on solid ground in another dark room, but the ceiling was much lower. Casting a quick look about her, she saw that the room was completely bare. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all made out of rough stone, and nothing else stood here besides the four of them.

Her eyes widened as she realized the walls and ceiling were slowly sliding inward. They were hemmed in on all sides by hard surfaces, and in another minute or so they would be crushed. She looked wildly at Mozenrath, wondering what he would do. He had of course seen the problem before her, and was already deep in concentration, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as he began searching for a way out. Why had he even teleported into this room? Had he made a mistake?

Laila stood motionless, her eyes still blank and unaware, while Xerxes curled around her slackened shoulders, whimpering with fear. Jasmine stepped closer to Mozenrath, already growing claustrophobic in the steadily shrinking space.

He snapped his fingers again, and they vanished into the air.

The place he took them was even worse than before. It was suddenly sweltering hot. Jasmine could feel the heat burning in her nostrils as she breathed; if it was this bad for her under the shield of the Mirror, then it must have been torture for Mozenrath. The room was shaped like a furnace, glowing red and orange with flashes of molten fire licking along the rounded walls and ceiling. She could not see the source of heat, but she was sure that they would all burn to death or suffocate if he did not move them out of there again. She stared at him in confusion and worry; it was not like him to make so many mistakes.

Again he focused his thoughts, his brow furrowing in concentration, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. The air between them swelled in the heat, distorting his features in her vision.

In the next second the heat waves abruptly ended, and they were basked in cold once more.

The cold was icier than she had ever experienced. The sudden plummet in temperature numbed her skin, sending her senses into brief disarray. But again the Mirror shielded her from the elemental effects of reality, and she could only imagine how it felt for Mozenrath and Xerxes. Laila was still a blank slate, standing quietly without complaint or feeling.

Shivering, Mozenrath cast his sharp eyes around the room. Jasmine did as well, and found that they were not in a room at all.

They were standing in a colorless void. There were no walls, ceiling, or floor. She looked down at her feet and saw nothing. It was disorienting and frightening, as if she could plunge downward at any moment. Oddly, it reminded her of her nightly discussions with Mozenrath, suspended on air in the dream world he had created. But here, this was no dream.

Mozenrath's eyes narrowed and a curse flew from his lips, making Xerxes flinch in fear.

"Clever old man. More than I expected," he muttered.

He paced slowly away from the spot he was standing, testing the invisible ground, and found that he could move in any direction he wished. There were no surfaces to serve as a point of reference, no sense of up or down or left or right. Jasmine watched him closely, wondering how he would get out of this predicament. She sensed a pattern now. They were not just wandering aimlessly through repeated blunders. There was a purpose to this constant teleportation. She had two guesses. They were going to kill Destane, or they were going to find the gauntlet. Perhaps both.

It made sense that Destane would have hidden the gauntlet in a secure place. Given how long he had been working on it, he would have ensured that its location was barricaded against the likes of his apprentice. This random assortment of torturous rooms without doors or windows seemed to act as a security system. It was a wonder that Mozenrath could navigate them properly and escape death each time.

But this room was a hard case. There was no concept of inside or outside in this borderless place. How could one teleport when there were no boundaries, no sense of direction?

But she trusted that he would; he was concentrating once again, his face tenser than before, not under threat, but drawn tight by his own frustration. Jasmine hoped for his own good that there were not many more rooms left before they reached their destination.

He opened his eyes, scowling. She backed away as he walked in her direction and then abruptly turned his head upwards. He raised his hand, fingers outstretched, and individual gossamer strings of silver appeared, wrapped thinly around each of his fingers. They faded just as quickly as he chanted a spell, and Laila's body began to straighten, her back stiffening and her head rising from its slumped position. Light flashed forth from her outstretched hands, and the room suddenly flickered. Jasmine almost lost her balance, blinded by the sudden brightness.

Mozenrath grinned in triumph and waved his hand again, sending another flash from Laila's palms to light up the room. Jasmine was briefly puzzled that he was using the princess to cast a spell, but could not dwell on the thought for long. This time she saw what had happened. They were trapped in an expansive illusion of borderless space. With the light spell Mozenrath was casting through Laila, they could see through the illusion in short flickers. The next time the room flashed, Jasmine noticed the faint outline of walls to their right. Mozenrath observed their surroundings carefully for another half-minute as he repeated the spell, and once he had a sufficient idea of what lay beyond the illusion, he closed his eyes and focused his energy once more.

They were transported to another room, on solid ground this time.

This room actually had doors—hundreds of them. Every surface, the floor, ceiling, and all four walls, were covered with identical oblong wooden panels, each of them adorned with a small brass knob. Jasmine gaped in confusion and wonder at the bizarre design of the place. She had no idea how they were supposed to reach the doors on the ceiling, but she was sure Mozenrath would find a way if necessary.

It seemed he had to open the right door in order to pass. She did not want to know what would happen if he chose the wrong one. She suddenly thought back to her own experience in the Cave of Wonders, how she had been tempted to touch many treasures that would have spelled her death, how she had been surrounded by mirrors that had all beckoned for her to look within them, all the while searching for the one elusive item that she needed. Mozenrath faced such a choice now. But all of his options looked exactly the same. How was he to choose?

He looked around him slowly, thinking hard, and then impatiently motioned for Xerxes to come near. The eel uncoiled himself from Laila's arm and slithered toward Mozenrath, watching his master in expectation. Mozenrath drew a knife out of the folds of his robe and unsheathed it quickly. He held it in front of him as if ready to slice downward through some invisible object in the air. But Jasmine noticed that the blade was upside down, the sharp edge facing up while the blunt edge faced down. Upon closer look at its handle and hilt, however, she saw that it had been purposely crafted this way. It was odd, but she did not question the shape of the undoubtedly magical object any further, merely standing back to watch what Mozenrath would do with it. He gave Xerxes a stern look.

"Listen for the door that unlocks," he said curtly. His familiar nodded, staying still and waiting for Mozenrath to move.

The young sorcerer turned the blade sideways as if turning a key in an invisible lock. And suddenly, her ears were filled with the sound of hundreds of doors simultaneously locking or unlocking; she could not tell which. The appearance of the room did not change at all; no doors had opened.

She stared at Mozenrath, trying to figure out the point of his directions. Xerxes was already zipping through the air, sniffing along the wall to their right, passing several adjacent doors and coming to rest on one, curling his body once around the doorknob.

"This one unlock," he said.

Mozenrath sheathed the blade and walked toward the eel, passing Laila on the way, hooking one arm around hers to pull her along. She stumbled after him but did not fall, her body somehow maintaining enough mobility to keep its balance.

"Good work, Xerxes," he said briefly, stroking the eel's head. Xerxes beamed, baring uneven teeth, and did a small somersault in the air.

It suddenly clicked in her head. Destane had of course meant for any intruders to open the wrong door. Thus, he had left almost all the doors unlocked, spelling instant doom or some other unpleasant fate for the trespassers who opened them. It would make sense then that the one correct door would be locked as a last measure against the unlikely visitor who figured out which one it was.

She had to shake her head at Mozenrath's genius, how quickly he had discovered the answer. The reversed-blade knife he had used seemed to reverse spells, as fitting for its unusual make. He had caused all the wrong doors to lock, and the single correct door to unlock. And with Xerxes' heightened animal senses, he had easily found the exit.

Mozenrath paused for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts and his composure before placing his hand on the doorknob. The air suddenly grew heavy, and Jasmine deduced from his grave expression that this was the final test. He might find the gauntlet behind this door. Or perhaps he would find his master. He might well find both, along with whatever nasty surprises the old sorcerer had prepared in case he got this far.

He kept a firm grip on Laila's arm with his left hand as he turned the knob with his right, Xerxes hovering nervously over his shoulder. In one quick motion he pulled the door open, letting go of the knob instantly and stepping into the dark space that awaited him. Right after Jasmine followed him through, the room full of doors dissipated into nothingness. He shut the door behind them with an audible creak.

It was too dark to see once again. Jasmine was on heightened alert, small hairs standing up on the back of her neck in her own nervousness. Mozenrath was still, barely breathing in the utter stillness of the unexplored room. She stood close beside him, feeling irrationally more secure by his side even though he was the one at risk. The aura of cautious confidence he carried felt like a protective barrier against the unknown. Xerxes must have felt it too, as he tried to curl around Mozenrath's shoulders before the sorcerer swatted him away, ordering him to scope out the area directly in front of them. Mozenrath raised one hand tentatively, the spidery strings gleaming on his fingers, and Laila's slack form began to stiffen again, her hands moving out of her own control, forming a ball of light in her palms and illuminating the room in pale brightness.

Jasmine drew back in shock at what she saw. The unassuming leather gauntlet, crafted from thousands of tortured souls, was suspended in midair, floating in a long glass case that reached from the floor to the ceiling in the middle of the room. But behind it lay the cause for her surprise and dread.

Raniye stood with her wrists chained to the far wall, her wide, frightened eyes sending an immediate warning to Mozenrath as she shouted mutely, no sound issuing forth from her strained lips.

In a split-second the floor directly beneath him erupted in fire, blazing walls shooting up from the stone and engulfing his entire body. Jasmine screamed and stumbled backward, narrowly missed by the flames herself. She watched helplessly as the flames roared and crackled, blocking him from view. How could he have survived that?

A loud animal screech drew her attention away from the flames. Xerxes was writhing on the floor several feet away, his skin smoking as he batted at himself uselessly with his fins. The invisible strings flared to life, glimmering like a tightly woven cocoon around his badly burned body, and she noticed that some of the strands had already frayed.

And she stared in shock as Mozenrath walked forward out of the dimming fire completely unscathed and calmly cast a healing spell over Xerxes, repairing burned skin and open wounds. He frowned at the snapped silver strings, casting another spell to knit them together in a rudimentary fashion.

He had somehow escaped damage entirely. She stared open-mouthed at him. It was not humanly possible to throw up a barrier that fast. Looking at Xerxes' newly healed form, however, she suddenly thought about the strings.

With Laila, it was apparent that he was using the strings to cast magic through her. It appeared he had put her into a trance and made her into a channel for his magic, a relatively easy task given the fact she was an empath. Perhaps it saved him energy to cast spells through a medium, but Laila still seemed to be more of a liability than a help in her current state. He must have had a good reason for bringing her nonetheless, and Jasmine could only wait for it to be revealed.

Xerxes had also been wrapped with the transparent strings, but Mozenrath was not using him to cast spells. She realized then that the eel had not been near Mozenrath when the fire had erupted around the sorcerer's body. Logically, Xerxes should not have been burnt so badly. But the fact that he had sustained heavy injury seemed to tell her that the strings served a second purpose. Not to channel Mozenrath's magic, but to channel away any outside spells or bodily harm done to him. She did not have time to puzzle it out further before a smooth, menacing voice broke the silence.

"You made it here in record time, boy, as expected."

The darkness lit up further with a wave of the old sorcerer's hand. At the same time, the mage light in Laila's hands dwindled down to nothing, and her posture slowly fell into a slump once again. Destane was standing at the far wall on the other side of the gauntlet, eyeing Mozenrath through the eerily bright light fractured by the slowly revolving edges of the glass case. One hand traced Raniye's jaw absently, ignoring her shivers of fear.

"And you're here waiting for your death, as expected," Mozenrath replied, staring back at his master through the glass.

"Bold words. But it seems it is too late for you to heed the warning I so generously gave you last time you rebelled," Destane said with a half-smile. His hand suddenly tightened around Raniye's throat then, and he pulled her forcefully toward him for a quick, violent kiss. Her mouth opened in a silent cry of pain as the chains dug into her wrists, but her gaze did not leave Mozenrath. And Jasmine found that the fear in her eyes was not for herself, but for him.

Mozenrath's even stare did not falter, displaying no reaction at all to his master's open taunt. Instead, his cold eyes flickered toward the gauntlet, seemingly mesmerized by it as if imagining it fitting perfectly over his hand.

In the next second, he clutched his head, disoriented, and stared at the glove in consternation. Destane laughed.

"Careful. Not everything it has to say is appropriate for children." He stepped forward, away from Raniye, and stopped beside the glass case in the middle of the room. He ran a hand smoothly down its side, inches away from the weapon both of them coveted. "But its voice is lovely, isn't it?"

Mozenrath glared at him, his confusion clearing into understanding.

"How many souls did it take?"

"Too many to bother counting. Even for a quick little mind like yours," Destane answered, his fingers drumming lightly against the glass. "Well, are you going to try your hand at taking it from me, so to speak? Or are you going to stand there gawking while I…" he drew back his fist, "take it for myself!"

Mozenrath's hand shot forward before Destane's fist could connect with the glass, somehow knocking the older man's arm backward. The latter responded in kind, swinging his open palm directly at Mozenrath and sending forth a blast of violet fire, the killing spell that Jasmine had seen once before. She knew Destane had never really meant to strike the glass. She had witnessed enough battles with evil beings to know that a good portion of their actions were for show. And, she remembered, he had supposedly been planning to kill Mozenrath to inject his soul into the glove. Until he did that, he would not put it on.

Mozenrath threw up a shield in time to block the spell, the fire spreading out vertically as he dodged to the side to cast another spell of his own. The floor around Destane began to blacken, either disappearing or charring with dark flame; Jasmine could not clearly tell. As the old man sent a spell toward the ground to cancel out what his apprentice had done, Mozenrath took the chance to grab Laila by the arm and run for the far wall, heading for Raniye. Despite the danger of the situation, a spark of hope lit up Jasmine's heart.

He was thrown off balance suddenly by another eruption of bright orange flame that engulfed the left side of his body in fire. He stumbled backward, pushing Laila away before batting at his sleeve, but Jasmine knew that he was unhurt. Several feet away, Xerxes screeched in pain, thrashing on the ground to put out the flames that had been channeled toward him. Mozenrath dragged Laila up from where she had collapsed on the ground and continued his dash toward Raniye, but Destane had seen what had happened.

The old man wore an expression of plain shock. It quickly morphed into an ugly sneer, and he advanced menacingly toward the fallen eel, picking him up off the ground just as Mozenrath reached Raniye's side and drew the knife from its sheath. Mozenrath paused as he looked back and saw his familiar lying helpless in the hands of his master.

"The Weaver's spell," Destane mused, half-awed, half-enraged. His piercing blue eyes were fixated on the flickering silver strings wrapped around Xerxes' twitching body. "How is it possible…"

"Because I surpassed you," Mozenrath said simply. "A long time ago."

Destane's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around the eel until it wheezed in pain. "Yet you were always weaker than me. Because you opened yourself to liabilities…like this."

He threw the eel to the ground and brought his boot down viciously on its midsection, forsaking magic for the sheer brutality of physical force. Xerxes shrieked, writhing on the stone tiles. Mozenrath flinched but did not move from his place even as Raniye turned toward him, pleading with silent words for him to save their friend.

He shook his head, his hands working some kind of magical pattern while still holding the blade, and Jasmine was close enough to hear him speak. "Xerxes knows his part in this."

Destane glared at his apprentice as he lifted the eel into the air with a levitation spell. The burns and bloody bruises on the eel's body were clearly visible. Jasmine wasn't sure how much longer he could last given the damage he had already sustained.

Mozenrath finished weaving his spell in time to cut off Destane's next verbal taunt, and half of the room was suddenly covered in an intricate web of silver strings. Jasmine was standing just on the outside of where the expansive, tightly knit net began, the fine ephemeral strands stretching but not snapping as the sorcerer ensnared within them growled in rage and tried to break free. A chorus of metallic twangs sounded each time he struck at the strings with darkly glowing hands. The strings held fast under each of his spells, even reflecting some of them back at him. Jasmine could not see him clearly through the density of glimmering silver, but she could tell that Mozenrath's spell would hold him at least for a short time.

Raniye reeled against her chains, grimacing in pain. Small slashes had appeared on the bare skin of her arms and hands, as if she had been lashed by the silver strings herself…

Jasmine stared at Destane, who was still attempting to break free of Mozenrath's restraining spell. Had he cast the same spell Mozenrath had cast on Xerxes? A spell that redirected damage done on him toward Raniye?

But she saw no silver strings binding Raniye's body. Perhaps it was a different kind of spell that delivered the same result. She understood then why Mozenrath's spells so far had been defensive, not offensive. He must have predicted that Destane would have tried to break him down through threatening Raniye with harm. An unexpected wave of gratitude flowed through her as she saw that he was saving Raniye first before even taking the gauntlet.

He began sawing at one of her chains with the reversed-blade knife, positioning the sharp edge of the blade below the chain and cutting upwards. Her restraints were apparently enchanted, as they sparked brightly with each movement of the knife. The chain soon snapped with a flash of light and her left arm dropped to her side.

A sudden explosion behind him drew his attention away from her; the old sorcerer had managed to blast through half of the web, and was quickly slashing through the rest of the strings. With a frown, he reluctantly sheathed his blade once again and stepped forward several feet, pulling Laila beside him.

He worked quickly, knowing he needed another spell to hold Destane back; the thick network of strings would not hold for much longer. With a brief flick of one wrist, a bloody gash appeared on the back of his other hand, and he smeared the blood across his palm with two fingers. He then stretched his arms over the space in front of him, Laila's arms imitating him perfectly. Between her delicate hands a green disc of light appeared, expanding quickly into a circle over a foot wide. Jasmine had seen this spell twice before. It was a summoning spell, but it had failed both times in the past. She had thought he had given up on it after that, but apparently he had found a use for it.

Laila swayed on her feet but continued to stand, her long-lashed eyelids beginning to droop under the power of his spell, woven over and through her. Jasmine suddenly saw that she had been burned badly; Destane's fire spell had hit her after all. Pity flowed anew within Jasmine's heart, though she imagined that at this point the girl was too far gone to feel pain or sorrow.

Jasmine flinched as Destane whirled and finally tore through the last of the web Mozenrath had woven around him. She glanced at the prone form of Xerxes in apprehension. Almost all of the silver strands surrounding his broken body had snapped, shimmering around him like a shattered cocoon. Any offensive spell that Destane cast now would harm Mozenrath, unshielded by the magic strings. Destane raised his hands with violet flame burning in his palms, ready to cast another killing spell.

Mozenrath smiled cruelly and cut off his master once again with a single word.

"Andraya."

The green light flashed and shimmered before expanding outward even further to accommodate a glowing white form that glided through it. It was too bright for Jasmine to see clearly, but as its light faded, she gasped in recognition of what it was—who it was—that Mozenrath had summoned. The sultana of Helinth. His mother.

And suddenly she understood why he had brought Laila with him. She had acted as a channel for his other spells, but her true purpose was to summon a spirit Mozenrath was unable to call forth on his own as a dark sorcerer.

Jasmine shuddered at the blank look of mindless servitude on the sultana's beautiful face. Her spirit shimmered white, ethereal wisps floating off her translucent royal robes in the eerie darkness of the room. She stared ahead at nothing, awaiting orders from her son. It was blasphemy that he had summoned the spirit of his deceased parent to do his bidding, to control her mind like he did a puppet or an undead soldier. But perhaps it should not have come as a surprise. There was nothing he would not do to fulfill his vow of vengeance.

Laila's delicate fingers imitated Mozenrath's in a quick spell, and the sultana spread her arms wordlessly, sending a bright spear of light across the room toward Destane. He roared in pain as it blinded him and sent him to his knees. He growled angrily and rubbed his eyes, willing them to see clearly again as he got to his feet, his hands already raised for another spell. Raniye bucked in pain against the wall, shutting her eyes which had also been blinded as an aftereffect. Jasmine realized that the apprentice had indeed surpassed the master. While Destane's spell caused Raniye to sustain the same damage that was done to him, it did not protect him from harm as Mozenrath's string spell did.

Mozenrath followed that spell with another quick gesture, and the sultana glided forward, holding out one hand toward the dark sorcerer who was still stumbling half-blind. Rays of light shot forth from her fingers and curved around his body, holding him immobile within their brightly pulsating bands. Destane struggled in rage, shouting threats at Mozenrath.

"You mean 'if' you ever get your hands on me," Mozenrath said, his voice aloof with scorn. "Over my dead body, old man. On second thought…yours will suffice."

He turned halfway toward Raniye again when Destane began to laugh, a throaty cackle that echoed dissonantly against the stone walls of the chamber.

"You think you've won so easily? You can't kill me, boy. Not with these flimsy bonds or some fancy light show. Not when my defenses are permanent," the sorcerer taunted darkly, straining against the sultana's immobilizing spell. His sharp blue eyes, now recovered, were watching Raniye keenly. Jasmine's heart sank; if his insinuations about his spell were true, then it really was impossible for Mozenrath to even harm Destane without hurting the princess.

"You told me to expect the unexpected. But everything you've thrown at me tonight has been completely predictable," Mozenrath said flatly, not rising to the bait. "I, on the other hand…"

He unsheathed the reversed-blade knife, a metallic shing echoing through the air. Destane's face froze, his struggles ceasing momentarily before he surged forward, one arm snapping free of the light bands. The sultana wordlessly recast the spell and bound him once more as he cursed in frustration.

"You don't have the heart," Destane said in a low voice. But it was threaded with uncertainty, even fear. Jasmine was suddenly lost, a step behind in the midst of the invisible, deadly tension hanging between them.

"What was that warning you gave me last time?" Mozenrath said nonchalantly. "Don't keep anyone too close, because…well, you know the rest."

He shut out his master's shouts of protest which rose in desperation and plain fear, and turned his full attention toward Raniye at last. And Jasmine's own heartbeat stopped upon seeing all emotion suddenly vanish from his face. He looked fully inhuman, like one of the living dead that he had created in the dungeons. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, drowning out the sounds of Destane's futile rage and the faint drone of the light currents encircling his body. She stepped back shakily, weakened by sudden dread.

_No…_

He had used the knife before to reverse all the spells in the room full of doors.

Then…the spell binding Raniye to Destane…

Raniye watched the young sorcerer with the passive eyes of a lamb that knew the sight of the altar upon first glance. He stepped toward her silently, his cold eyes never leaving her face, never dropping the walls of ice he had established between them ever since the day Prince Xerxes had died. With a few quick motions of the magical blade, he severed the last chain binding her to the wall. She lowered her arm slowly, shackles still dangling from her wrists.

He came to stand mere inches from her, his face stoic and expressionless as they shared the same allotment of air. She reached up to hold his face with one palm, a sad, infinitesimal smile gracing her lips. And then she closed her eyes.

"You're free," he whispered, and drove the blade through her heart.

Jasmine felt a sharp prick of pain within her own body, a mental backlash of what had just happened to Raniye. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and she jerked forward helplessly, the crown of her head brushing against his cheek as her body curled in pain around the cold blade. She coughed blood, retching at his feet. He did not flinch, placing his left hand on her shoulder and pushing her back with surprising gentleness against the wall as his right hand withdrew the knife from her chest. A gout of blood gushed from the open wound and drenched the front of his robes in sacrificial crimson.

And Jasmine heard a crash of glass and an echoing scream from the center of the room, the death knell of the man who had driven countless spikes of pain and fear through his apprentice and the princess over the years. Destane was no longer bound by the power of the sultana's spirit; there was no need to contain him any longer. He had slumped on the ground, blood pooling around him from the mortal wound under his clothing, clutching at his chest uselessly as he foamed at the mouth. Glass shards from the case that had held the gauntlet lay scattered around him. He reached one trembling hand toward the glove, which hung serenely beyond his reach, and his face twisted in hate and disbelief. Mozenrath curled his lip in contempt, staying silent as he observed the death throes of his master. Jasmine had imagined he would have savored this moment much more, but it was obvious why he could not. It had cost him far too much to reach this point, to finally overthrow his greatest enemy.

The last spasm wracked his master's dying body, and then Lord Destane fell still. Defeated by a man he had raised from childhood to manipulate for his own ends, a man who had threatened revenge against him from the very beginning, a man he had constantly underestimated until it was too late.

To Jasmine's surprise, the sultana's spirit did not disappear with the death of the sorcerer she had been commanded to contain. Instead, she turned quietly toward her son, apparently free from his control. Intelligent consciousness lit her ghostly eyes.

"Morathai. What have you done?"

The question echoed gravely across the stillness of the tomblike chamber. Far above them, a distant rumble of what sounded like a stampede began. Jasmine looked at the ceiling in slight trepidation, though she could not see through the thick layers of earth and mortar separating them from the surface. Mozenrath looked up as well, a knowing, calm expression crossing his face.

"I avenged us and our kingdom," he replied evenly, ignoring the threatening vibrations above them. He met his mother's gaze without repentance or sorrow. But even to himself the words must have sounded hollow, having lost their meaning long ago.

"No." The unforgiving tone of her response batted down the feeble veneer of his words. "You have become everything our kingdom stood against. The man you have become would not be able to pass through the gates of Helinth if they still stood."

He stood in silence, bearing her judgment with his eyes cast to the floor. He was finally able to see and hear the wise, loving mother he had lost in boyhood, only to be faced with harsh verdicts of truth from her lips. She was unrelenting in her righteousness, as she had always been. Despite the rebellious, arrogant man he had become, he still deferred to her authority. Or maybe it was simply because he knew she spoke the truth, and there was no use in protesting or trying to defend himself.

"Your father and I are long gone, along with our kingdom. Did you not tell your friend not to see the dead as the living? Revenge on behalf of the dead is useless. You may have sought it on your own behalf instead, but do you not see yet that you are dead as well? Prince Morathai of Helinth died long ago under your own hand," she continued, her patient gaze never leaving his face. "On whose behalf have you pursued vengeance, then?"

He did not answer, standing quietly under the weight of her grave voice. A brief tremor shook the walls around them, setting Jasmine's senses on heightened alert. It sounded like a massive beast was coming down toward them.

"I tell you the truth: if you put on that gauntlet, Destane will be the one to take revenge on the Seven Deserts. Through you."

He raised his head then to speak, a spark of defiance standing in his eyes, but the sultana stopped him with one ethereal hand. Wisps of smoke from her spirit began to curl into a circular window in the air, shimmering with light. It cleared into an image of a familiar room—Thanon's study, where Jasmine's long quest for Mozenrath's past had begun. She saw the old historian pull a book off his shelf and hand it to the young curly-haired boy standing beside him, dressed in the simple but elegant garb of Agrabanian nobility. Something in Jasmine's heart cracked. His mother was showing him what his past might have been.

Of course Thanon would have taken such a brilliant child as a student, and with his kind heart he would have fully supported his education and upbringing in Agrabah's elite circles. He was a prince after all, even though his kingdom was no more. The image shifted and he was older, looking much healthier than he had become under Destane's tutelage, his skin a healthy, tanned shade, his lean figure more athletic, his shoulders relaxed and not drawn tight with constant tension. He was in the throne room, kneeling before her father, speaking with confidence and solemnity. Her father frowned and turned his head to his side where the tall, sinister form of the royal vizier stood. Jafar immediately raised his hands in a defensive manner, casting a hateful glance at Mozenrath, but the sultan only grew angrier, calling the guards to arrest him.

Jasmine's hands flew to her lips; Mozenrath would have saved the kingdom from Jafar? The thought was too bizarre to accept. She had to remind herself clearly that none of this had actually happened. The sultana was merely showing one out of the myriad possibilities of the past. But one thing was certain: if Mozenrath had chosen to find Thanon when Destane had given him the chance, he would have lived a much better life. He would have had a real childhood, free of violence and bloodshed, a father figure to raise and guide him, and a future as a righteous man of power and justice in Agrabah. And perhaps with his innate magical talents and intelligence, he would have figured out Jafar's treachery before everyone else.

The scene blurred again, and her heart skipped a beat. He was an adult, as old as he was now in the Citadel, walking beside her in the palace gardens. He was clad in the immaculate robes of a court advisor, his wavy hair covered by a simple headdress that accented his refined features. He walked with his hands behind his back, glancing at her thoughtfully every so often as she spoke. At last they came to a stop by the rows of jasmine flowers, and he made a remark that drew a light laugh from her. He took her hand then and kissed it, his enigmatic smile free of malice and cruelty. The utter serenity of his demeanor looked so strange on his face. The gentle, coy look that she gave him was also jarringly out of place, as were the poorly hidden affection and admiration in her eyes.

Jasmine felt weak, as if her breath had been stolen from her and she could not open her throat to draw air back in. Had this really been a possibility for her own life, not just his? That he, a magical prince from a distant land, could have won her heart like Aladdin had? That he could have even taken Aladdin's place?

Everything would have been different. Jafar would never have carried out his treacherous plans in full and wrought havoc over the kingdom. She might never have run away from the palace and met Aladdin if she had already found a suitable man to marry within the palace. Perhaps the kingdom would have grown even more prosperous and secure under his counsel and eventual leadership. Destane would still have existed, but it seemed he had kept his word about letting Mozenrath go completely, not even bothering to come to Agrabah in the midst of his conquests.

She thought about the greatest sacrifice she would have made in this imaginary past. She would never have met Aladdin.

That sacrifice would have been too much to make. She had no desire to change the past; she could not imagine her life without him in it. Even though the Mirror had already begun to take away precious memories of him, she still treasured their love more than anything else.

And Mozenrath would never have met Raniye or Xerxes.

He had lived a horrible, cruel life, constantly tortured by his master. But perhaps it was worth it to have befriended and loved those two people. Jasmine wondered what Mozenrath would choose if he could have gone back in time and reversed his decision to stay with Destane. Would he have forsaken his life in darkness and his two friends in exchange for a charmed life in a kingdom that welcomed and admired him?

"It is not too late to change," the sultana said, ignoring the rattling sounds of approaching doom above them. "As long as you draw breath, there is hope. But you have journeyed far and long down this road of damnation, and it will take much time and effort to trace your way back. The path is narrow, Morathai, but men have walked narrower paths."

He abruptly dispelled the image with a swipe of his bloodied hand, his face contorted with fury as he rounded on his mother.

"That's nothing but an illusion! A useless dream of a reality that vanished long ago," he snapped. "There is no going back on the path I chose and the price I've paid. I've earned this power with blood and enormous sacrifice. How can I turn from it now to chase some empty dream that isn't even real?"

In the vehemence of his anger she could hear traces of bitter regret. And she abruptly realized that even after all these years, he was still haunted by the choice he had made. The choice to forsake a good life for the path of vengeance and power, even if making that choice would have meant he would never know the friendship of the Galareone prince or the love of the Chryilian princess.

The walls shook once more under the impact of the unseen menace above. Jasmine heard the distinct sound of heavy footsteps and weapons clanging against solid stone just over their heads. The undead hordes were coming to avenge their master, she guessed with dread. They were rapidly breaking through whatever magical and physical barriers Destane had set and descending into the depths of the Citadel to find the man who had overthrown their lord.

Mozenrath shook his head firmly, tempering his anger with effort. "I have nothing left but this path. I have sacrificed everything for this moment, for my revenge and freedom. It would be the ultimate disgrace…the ultimate waste, to turn away now."

He cast his hollow gaze to the side, where the broken body of the Chyrilian princess lay in permanent silence. Jasmine could almost hear his thoughts. He had sacrificed her. It would have been the ultimate waste to turn away from what she had given her life for.

The deafening clatter of weapons against stone rose into a massive din as the last barrier broke outside the room; apparently, Destane's death had caused the mazelike enchantments to fade, allowing his soldiers to enter without much trouble. The door to the room began to splinter from the relentless onslaught of the undead. The sultana said nothing as Mozenrath stepped forward and reached for the gauntlet. He brushed the cool leather with his still-healthy hand and removed it from its suspended place.

He looked down at the object calmly, turning it over in his hands. Jasmine drew in a breath that she could not let out; the significance of this moment seemed to stop her heart.

He closed his eyes as the first of his master's undead soldiers, soldiers he himself had brought into being, smashed through the door with swords and sharpened spears. The noise of the hordes grew to a deafening cacophony now that the door was no longer there to muffle it.

In one smooth motion he slipped the gauntlet onto his right hand, and all movement stopped. The room was blanketed in utter stillness except for Jasmine's halting breaths. The Mamluks that had charged into the room now stood quietly, empty eyes gaping at nothing, their weapons limp in their bony hands.

A split-second later, the silence was shattered by screams.

Jasmine had never heard such inhuman sounds of pain, torn from Mozenrath's throat as if he were in torment in the lowest pits of hell. He collapsed onto the floor, convulsing violently, clutching his gauntleted hand in a death grip, staring at it in wide-eyed horror.

Jasmine fought the urge to shut her eyes and spare herself the queasiness of watching what she knew would happen. The gauntlet was demanding its price from him. The flesh of his right arm.

Bright red blood splattered across the floor, spurting from the inside of the glove. She gasped in terror; it was devouring his flesh as if it were a living thing, a beast with serrated teeth and insatiable hunger. His scream cracked hoarsely, his throat already torn raw by pain. Yet he could not take his eyes off the glove, still clutching it with his left hand and trying in vain to pull it off. Jasmine could suddenly see the bone protruding from where the glove ended on his arm, glaring white splattered with crimson. His sleeve had torn off completely under the ravenous magic of the glove, and the white of bleached bone was spreading further up his arm toward his shoulder. She almost retched at the sight of his skin peeling and disintegrating, the pulsing muscle and sinew underneath exposed to the cold air, and then the onset of small invisible teeth tearing layer after layer away until only bone remained.

The spirit of his mother was beside him suddenly, placing her slender hand on his shoulder, holding him still against the unbearable onslaught of pain. And slowly, slowly, the agony and terror seeped out of him, his screams tapering into hoarse gasps for air, his body on the brink of going into shock. Jasmine forced herself to look closer and saw that the glove had stopped eating away at his flesh. Its feast had ended at his shoulder. At the junction of his arm and his shoulder there was a misshapen, pulsing mass of torn muscles and tendons. It did not bleed. Through her tears she noticed the faintly glowing power of the sultana's translucent hand, covering Mozenrath's arm in a golden aura.

His face relaxed, the pain lessening under her healing spell. His arm remained as bone, the flesh gone forever. But she at least was able to ease the physical agony of his loss. He looked at her in exhausted awe. She had managed to stop the curse of the gauntlet from eating him alive.

"The price," the sultana said, her beautiful features weighted down by sadness for her son, "is permanent."

Her spirit abruptly flickered, disappearing for a second before it reappeared fainter than before. Mozenrath and Jasmine both glanced toward the Maristean princess, who had slumped to the ground and lay motionless, her pretty, haunted eyes blank. She was close to death, if not already dead. And when she died, the connection would be broken, and the sultana would return to her eternal rest.

"Goodbye…" she said, ages of wistful sorrow in her solemn voice. "My son…"

He sat still as she finally faded into the air, leaving nothing but the remnants of her life-giving spell on his tormented body. Then he turned painfully and dragged himself toward Raniye on his left arm, gingerly holding up his ruined right hand.

"Well, well, well. Looks like I'm a little late to this party."

Jasmine froze. She could recognize that voice anywhere. Sly, feminine, and decidedly malevolent. The female demon that had helped Destane create the gauntlet…

Mozenrath turned back around, bloodshot eyes searching for the stranger.

"Who are you? Show yourself!"

The lithe, slender form of the feline goddess materialized before him, her long scarlet dress flowing gracefully behind her as she stepped out of the smoky trail of her spell. Her golden jewelry flashed under the light, and she flicked back her silky black hair carelessly with one clawed hand. She cast her slitted gaze around the room, pausing at the sight of Destane's crumpled form. Her fingers stretched outward, extending into claws reflexively with the sudden look of anger on her dark-skinned face. But it morphed just as quickly into a disarming smile, and she turned toward Mozenrath, considering him with interest and a certain measure of respect.

"I am definitely late to this party," she said. Jasmine could hear the pout in her smooth, cultured voice. Mirage eyed the tattered remains of Mozenrath's right arm, partially covered in the gauntlet she had helped make. "Tsk, tsk. Weren't you taught not to take things that don't belong to you? That glove was fitted for Destane. He didn't mean for anyone else to be able to put it on and survive. But it seems that you are an exception, my dear boy."

Mozenrath slowly got to his feet, wobbling for a second before bracing himself against the wall. He faced the goddess defiantly as if challenging her to try to take the gauntlet back from him.

"So you're Mirage."

"Quick, aren't we?" she said dryly. "Yes, I am Mirage, queen of Morbia, mistress of darkness, Evil Incarnate…but I tire of reciting my titles. I would much rather know more about you, a whelp who somehow managed to kill the strongest sorcerer in the world and steal his greatest prize, and then live to tell a goddess about it."

"I am Mozenrath," he said, contempt audible in his voice. "The new Lord of the Black Sand."

"Ah. Mozenrath. Destane told me quite a bit about you, though he mostly complained about how insufferable you are," she said, obviously unimpressed. "Congratulations, Ex-Apprentice of the Black Sand. You've done what no mortal should be capable of. But unfortunately, I'm afraid your bloated ego will be short-lived. You see, I still expect that you will hold to the deal that we established—"

"Whatever deal you made with Destane is off," Mozenrath said flatly. "He already gave you thousands of souls as you demanded. And in return you used some of the souls to make this weapon for him. The transaction is complete."

Mirage's vile cackle echoed throughout the chamber. "Such bold words for a little mortal sorcerer! I now understand why Destane found you so irritating." Her eyes flashed and her laughter stopped abruptly. "But the deal is not for you to decide, boy. I am a goddess. You are a weak human hardly past boyhood. When I say the deal holds, it holds. Morbia will be joined with the Land of the Black Sand. It will be the beginning of a new age of darkness for the Seven Deserts."

Mozenrath bristled and tensed, his right hand curling into a fist; this would be the first test of his new power. The gauntlet began to glow a dark fiery blue, flames licking its edges in a familiar pattern.

"I won't let you enslave this land I worked so hard to conquer," he sneered.

The cat goddess ignored his defiant challenge, her eyes focused on the stolen weapon instead. "It seems the glove has adapted to you. An unexpected development. How intriguing…"

She turned her shrewd gaze upon his face and smiled disarmingly once again. But as always, there was a scheming undertone in her voice. "Actually, I find you preferable to that doddering old fool. You are young, ambitious, sharply intelligent, handsome…you will make an excellent partner in crime. We may continue this discussion in my palace. You have never laid eyes on my lovely kingdom, have you?"

"If it looks anything like you, I don't think I ever want to," he said curtly.

Her power flared up in anger, her hair standing on end with the electrical energy pulsing through her body. Jasmine drew back in slight fear; though they had managed to defeat Mirage before, she had to maintain a healthy respect for the goddess' power. She could effortlessly draw magic into her body with nothing more than a spark of emotion to trigger its flow.

But Mozenrath was unperturbed by the sudden burst of magic, standing his ground with his gauntleted hand upraised. Through his expression of defiance she could see barely contained excitement, euphoria even, at the heady feeling of power the gauntlet must have given him. It must have magnified his innate power by a considerable amount. And if he had been able to defeat the strongest sorcerer in the world without the gauntlet, there was no telling what he could do with the magical weapon in his possession.

But in actuality, she knew what he could and would do. The thought saddened her, crushing any hopes she had of him reconsidering his mother's wisdom.

Mirage's mercurial mood flickered once again, and her raven hair settled back around her shoulders. The tense rage on her face smoothed out into a conciliatory smile, and she held her elbow in one hand, tapping her chin in thought.

"Well, I suppose a few years isn't that long for an immortal goddess to wait. Yes…and it might be entertaining in the meantime to watch you try to fill your master's shoes, play king over this barren land, conquer some more pathetic cities. And in the end there'll be even more land waiting for me when I come back to collect your debt. Yes, I think I'll wait. I'll have what I want soon enough."

"You can quit talking to yourself," Mozenrath said tersely. "You're not going to get any payment out of me, not now, not ever."

Mirage glanced at his upraised hand, challenging her with power he had not yet tested, and laughed in genuine amusement, which only infuriated the sorcerer further. "You don't want to fight me, boy. And anyway, we forces of evil shouldn't fight amongst ourselves. There's too much of the world waiting for us to conquer."

It struck Jasmine that this was the first time Mozenrath had been referred to as evil. In her journey through his tortured past, she had sympathized with him on most counts, whether he had been cold or cruel, both through his small kindnesses and relentless desperation for power. It was bizarre now to finally face the fact that this man was truly her enemy, though she had known it at all along.

Seeing that the sorcerer was still hostile and unremitting, Mirage sighed and drew one delicate hand dramatically over her forehead. "Oh, you poor, poor boy. You've just lost your only family, and I'm already making demands for you to fill his shoes. I understand if you need time to recover. Anyone would."

Mozenrath growled in rage, flinging a fiery blast of power at her. She raised one hand calmly and dispelled it without effort. She did not flare up in anger this time, but Jasmine could understand why Mozenrath had. Her careless statement had hit upon an artery of Mozenrath's pain. Unbeknownst to Mirage, he had indeed lost his only family in a permanent farewell; with the path he was walking, he would not see his mother again in this life or the next.

"Destane really taught you nothing, hm? Don't you know to adapt yourself to magical weapons before you use them against anyone?" Mirage said, slightly miffed. "You have much to learn, little lord. But I wish you success. And long life…"

With a flick of her hand she conjured a glowing object out of the air, its glassy surface flashing brightly. Jasmine shielded her eyes for a second, but the item quickly solidified and dimmed. It was an hourglass filled with fluorescent pink sand. The grains trickled slowly but steadily from the top compartment into the bottom. Mozenrath stared at the object, immediately on heightened guard.

"Time is of the essence, as they say," Mirage said smoothly as she floated the hourglass toward him. "This is my parting gift to you to remind you of that truism."

He backed away from the glowing object, swatting at it with his gauntleted hand when it drew near to his face. A flash of light exploded upon contact with the glass and threw him backward into the wall. His head slammed into the stone and he slumped to the floor, weakened and disoriented. The hourglass continued its leisurely path toward him, coming to rest on the floor beside his right arm.

"I'll be back when your time is up to collect your debt," she said, her silky voice lined with malice. "I'm a generous force of evil; you'll have plenty of time to wet your hands in conquest and bloodshed, raise the dead, build sandcastles, whatever you unstable sorcerers like to do on your free time. I expect your accomplishments won't disappoint me when I return."

With that, she gave a mocking bow, holding the crimson skirt of her dress out to the side with one hand. The image of her slitted golden eyes lingered briefly in the air as her corporeal form faded into the darkness.

Utterly drained, Mozenrath stared at the spot where she had just been, his face wrought with tension and futile rage. He turned his head toward the small hourglass standing beside him, and picked it up gingerly with his left hand. It did not shock him this time. He held it up to his eye level, watching the trickle of the bright sand ticking away his time left in freedom. Jasmine could see him doing the calculations in his head, estimating how much time he had based on the amount of sand remaining in the top compartment. He grimaced and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a brief moment. She realized that he had never had a chance to rest for all these years, as he had always had to submit to Destane's will, and now that he was finally free of his master, he found himself imprisoned by new chains.

He opened his eyes and carefully tilted the hourglass in his hand, watching the top compartment intently. The sand did not shift to the side as gravity dictated. In a bold move, he upturned it completely, setting it on the ground quickly before it might shoot another magical blast at him.

But it was useless. The sand inside was no ordinary sand. It defied the laws of nature, continuing to flow in the appointed direction, which now appeared contrary to gravity. Jasmine felt the sinking despair that must have blanketed his heart. He turned it over again to its rightful position and dragged himself shakily to his feet with his hands gripping the wall for support.

At last, he stumbled over to where Raniye lay, her beautiful face still and pale in death. He stared down at her for a long while, his face devoid of all emotion. But Jasmine knew that within him there must have been a swirling sea of feeling and memory, battering against the cold walls of his own heart. She sensed he would never let those walls drop again, if only to protect himself from the tragic pain he must have felt at this moment.

And she heard the echo of Aladdin's soft, reflective voice, telling her about a woman who had been trapped by circumstance as a caged bird, unable to escape. A woman he had tried to save but had ultimately lost to death.

_But in the end I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't strong enough to break her chains._

Mozenrath stooped down with effort, willing his injured body not to lose its balance, and gently closed her vacant eyes with his fingers. He straightened again, watching her for another second, his eyes flitting toward the bloody gash on the front of her dress, over her heart. His right hand tightened involuntarily, the hand that had drawn the blade and driven it through her flesh to open the only road to freedom she had left. Then he turned abruptly and approached the center of the death-filled room, passing the Mamluks that stood suspended in stillness, awaiting orders from their new lord.

He looked down at the broken body of his master, skin scored with burns from holy magic, the front of his robes awash in his own blood.

His face was still, fraught with invisible tension, and Jasmine could see the tide of fury gaining momentum behind his eyes, fury at this man who had taken everything from him, starting with his family and his kingdom to his faith, compassion, morality, and all the other good things he had been raised to believe in, stretching onward to suffocate the only friends he had known, a young prince from Galareon and a beautiful princess from Chyrilis, and finally…

Finally ending with his own humanity.

The Mozenrath she had encountered in the present time was not the one she saw in the sands of the Mirror. He was needlessly cruel, selfish, power-hungry, sadistic, enjoying torture and destruction without a care for the moral implications or human suffering connected with his actions. All along this harrowing journey she had yearned to see some kind of redemption, some sign of hope for him to turn back and live a different life, but of course she knew that none of that would come to pass. There was no changing who he was in the present, the evil man he would grow to become.

Her eyes were drawn to the gauntlet then, which seemed to pulsate with energy of its own accord, uncontrolled by Mozenrath's will. She drew back instinctively from the waves of utter wrongness emanating from it, uninhibited by the practiced control he would later gain over the weapon.

The thing felt alive. It had spoken to him and eaten away his arm like a living creature; perhaps it actually did have a consciousness of its own, in whatever way magically enchanted objects did. Then…

Jasmine's heart pounded in apprehension. She knew little about magic, but from listening to Iago and Genie's regular expositions on it, she knew that magical items could be shaped for individuals, tailored to their disposition, personality, strengths and weaknesses.

_That glove was fitted for Destane. He didn't mean for anyone else to be able to put it on…_

Mirage's words were an additional confirmation for what she suspected. Mozenrath had attached himself to a magical item meant for someone else, and though he could still use it effectively, it could also use him. Drain him, warp him, eat away at his spirit if not his flesh, tailoring him to fit the mold of the man who had been meant to wear it.

The sultana of Helinth was right. He had become everything he had once stood against.

Mozenrath's hand tightened into a fist, and he brought it down with a sickening crack on the dead body in front of him. Jasmine flinched at the sound of his knuckles breaking, and he stumbled from the force of his own movement, falling to his knees among the glass shards scattered around him. His face distorted in rage, he grabbed the corpse by its already clammy throat, throttling it, digging his shaking fingers into the skin around the Adam's apple, his knuckles turning white with the force he was applying.

With a half-scream, half-sob, he slammed his master's head against the hard stone tiles, shattering the back of the skull, leaving a trail of dark blood on the stone. It splattered across his robes, droplets hitting his face and hands as he continued to slam the lifeless body against the floor.

He screamed again and again as he blasted the body with his newfound power, setting it alight with blue-black flame, striking it with his unprotected left hand even while it was burning, kicking it viciously with his boots though it could no longer feel any pain. Jasmine turned away as he slowly turned his master's aged face into an unrecognizable mass of mangled flesh and bloody pulp. She shut her ears to the nauseating wet sounds of flesh being battered by fists and feet, and the utter hysteria in his enraged voice, all traces of his cool, composed manner having vanished under the unleashing of his own inner demons, the deep hatred that he had harbored inside and kept imprisoned for over a decade. Silent tears trailed down her face as she wept for him, for what he had lost, and for what he had yet to lose because of the evil object of power he had chosen to make his own. It never would be completely his own, though. It would destroy him from the inside out. The hourglass was only a marker of his physical deterioration, not the mental and spiritual decay he would undergo.

His cold words from a conversation that had happened ages ago returned to her now.

_The gauntlet never stops demanding payment for its power…_

_I can remove it for a time. But it can never be far from me._

And finally, the words of warning he had spoken to her when she had foolishly considered putting it on her own hand.

_It may not take the flesh off your bones. But it will take many other things that you currently cannot imagine living without. Your youth, your energy, your beauty, your dreams and passions and love…it will take it all and sacrifice it for the sake of whatever you wish to use your power for. _

It had taken all that from him and more. Her heart splintered again for him, lying in countless shards because of him, her obsessive desire to know his past, to know who he was. And yet she knew that this was only the surface cost, a small price to pay compared to what he had gone through firsthand, not within the safe confines of a magic mirror.

At last the violent sounds of his unleashed fury ceased. Jasmine turned hesitantly and saw him kneeling in silence beside the mangled corpse of his master, limbs trembling with exhaustion and the unfocused energy of the gauntlet. His eyes were closed, but she could see the glistening trails on his face, water slowing dripping from his jaw to the floor and the gloved hand planted there, adorning the bloody leather with tears. He made no sound as he wept. It was the first time she had ever seen him shed tears; it was a shock to know he still could.

Slowly he stood, turning his face away in disgust from the battered corpse, and strode steadily forward to where several Mamluks stood in patient silence. They were his Mamluks now, as were the Citadel and the entire surrounding desert. She could see him drinking in the thought, testing it with his consciousness, absorbing the claim that he was now the Lord of the Black Sand.

He looked down at the body of the eel lying unconscious by his feet, and directed energy from his gauntlet toward its still form. Xerxes floated upward and settled over his right shoulder, still limp and unmoving. But it was breathing; Jasmine could see the small rise and fall of its battered skin. Despite all the pain and damage it had sustained, it was still alive, and would live on as Mozenrath's mindlessly loyal subject. His only subject that was not the living dead.

Jasmine stared through unshed tears at Mozenrath's back as he straightened his shoulders, raising his head slightly in a decisive manner. She could see the new power and authority settling across those shoulders, along with great burden and responsibility.

And finally, she understood the full meaning of the words he had taken on as his mantra. _Power comes at a cost._


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The finality of the scene sank into her heart as Mozenrath stood among the ashes of his old life. His tall, stoic form remained solemn and still as the sand swept over him, covering the body of the hated man he had managed to kill only by sacrificing the woman he loved. Waves of brittle earth buried the blood-splattered tiles, the charred stone of the death-filled chamber, and the broken glass formerly encasing the weapon that would become his ultimate power and his ultimate downfall.

Jasmine closed her eyes; there was no reason to move and little time to think on the gravity of all that had transpired. She felt it in her gut; there was not much left to see after this pivotal moment in his life. He had overthrown his greatest foe only to find an empty, dark path where he would now grow his own demons. She knew what would happen from now on, and it crushed her to think that the next few years of his life were inalterable.

When she opened her eyes to the soft recession of the sand, she was surrounded by darkness, as if she were back in the dream world Mozenrath had created for their nightly conversations. But there was no trace of him or anyone else near her.

A rolling wave of dread began in the pit of her stomach as the faint, haunting melody returned, threading through the air and extending its invisible spindles into her mind, testing her, provoking her. Was this what it felt like to slowly fall into madness? She shook her head and clamped her hands over her ears, trying to clear the sound, not knowing if it was real or imagined. The song continued, swelling in volume into a sinister key, notes jarringly beautiful in their ghostly quality. It was a woman's voice, humming softly and drawing nearer.

…_don't you dare close your eyes…_

Her stomach twisted sickeningly at the words, and she tensed, shaken out of her passive state by the voice that was beautifully marring Aladdin's song.

"Who are you?" she asked, seeing nothing in the deathly stillness.

…_I can't go back to where I used to be…_

Jasmine jumped as the song suddenly grew loud in her ears, though the gentle quality of the voice remained the same. She whirled, trying to find the source of this madness, afraid that it was a figment of her own tortured imagination.

A light silver mist appeared in front of her, curling around the vague form of a woman dressed in white. As the apparition stepped into full view, Jasmine stepped back in fear and awe, one hand clutching her heart.

"R…Raniye?"

The woman nodded as her song ceased; it was indeed the fair princess of Chyrilis, the voice behind the haunting tune. Jasmine's eyes were drawn helplessly to the wide bloody gash on the front of her dress. Her face was pale, untouched, as beautiful as she had been in life. Her hair flowed gently in silken waves as she approached Jasmine with slow, measured steps in the borderless dark.

To her confusion, the Chyrilian princess lowered her head in deference.

"You have come far, Princess Jasmine," she said, her voice light and sad. "Farther than others would have."

Jasmine looked at her in puzzlement. She wondered what the Mirror's purpose was now, showing her a woman who was already dead and had no direct relation to her life. "What do you mean?"

"Your heart is strong," Raniye said, her long-lashed eyes watching Jasmine with a small, wistful smile. "You are truly a diamond among pearls."

Jasmine's look of confusion only deepened. "Why are you here?"

The princess' gaze did not falter. "Because you have come to the last gate. There is but one memory left before you may leave this place, and I am here to collect the toll."

She had not anticipated that she would face the end of her journey through a soft, painless conversation with the ghost of Mozenrath's lover. The end seemed to have arrived almost too quickly now that it was presented to her in such a direct fashion. It felt like ages since she had known the solidity of the real world, the passage of real time, a place where her words and touch were heard and felt by others, and she could feel physical pain, not just the agony of her heart sundering again and again.

But there was a toll, of course.

"What is the cost?" she asked.

Raniye's reply crushed her softly.

"You must choose to forget one of the men you love."

Jasmine's heart stopped, having dreaded this moment but never having imagined it would arrive this way.

She had considered the possibility the Mirror would take her memories of Aladdin from the very beginning. But she had never thought it would actually give her a choice. A choice that she had to weigh against losing all the knowledge she had just gained of…

The other man she loved?

She drew back in consternation, staring disbelievingly at the princess' placid face.

"Who…?"

Raniye's voice was once again gentle in its destructive power. "Aladdin, the diamond in the rough, and Mozenrath, the Lord of the Black Sand."

Her hands flew to the sides of her head, grasping her hair with trembling fingers. How could…

The grave truth sank into her consciousness. The veneer of denial she had hastily thrown up to defend herself was cast aside like a flimsy curtain by the gentle hands of the woman standing before her. She could not deny it any longer.

It had begun as obsession. Obsession rooted in hatred, distaste, and enmity. It had grown into honest confusion, helpless fascination, guarded sympathy, conflicted pity, and slow understanding, gaining momentum with each scene of his past she had witnessed, steadily sinking into her being as much more than a passing, unhealthy fixation. The Mirror was now confirming what she was terrified to face openly. Despite all the evils it had surrounded her with, it had not lied to her. It had crushed her slowly with the weight of truth, which killed more cleanly than any malicious deceit.

"No…I don't…"

Raniye stilled her words with a gently upraised hand. "Princess, there is no shame in your love."

Jasmine stared at her as she continued, a sad smile still gracing her pale lips. "Your heart is strong. Strong because it is great enough to love a man like him, in spite of all he is and all he has done. There is no shame in this."

"But…" she stuttered, "I can't…I can't love him, it's wrong, I…"

"Love bows to no one's will," Raniye said. "Whether you are a princess, a street rat, or a sorcerer."

Jasmine remembered Mozenrath's gaze as he had looked upon the woman he loved, slain by his hand. She remembered the hidden sorrow in his eyes, brutally suppressed by his own unrelenting desire for power and vengeance that had swept everything else aside. He had swept her aside, but even then his eyes had betrayed him. He had been helpless to stop loving her even as he drove the knife through her heart and watched her life spill upon the stone floor.

She closed her eyes and asked another question.

"What is the last memory I have left to see?"

"What you came here to find," Raniye answered plainly. "The moment his challenge to you was born."

Jasmine took in a halting breath, faced with this momentous choice that would change her life even more than she had imagined thus far.

If she made the first choice, she would lose everything…everything that she treasured about Aladdin, the man who'd freed her from her cage, the man who had pledged to stand by her side over the welfare of their kingdom until the day he died. She had written several pages in the hastily compiled book of her life in order to guard against this, but it was painfully obvious that mere words on parchment could not bring back the fullness of the life she had lived with him so far and all the wonderful memories they had shared. And she feared that it would change her irreparably; the woman she had become after meeting him was so different from the petulant, selfish princess she had once been. She could not predict the extent of the damage she would incur, but the very thought of it made her shrink back in fear alongside the overwhelming sorrow she felt.

But if she made the second choice…

She would lose everything she had entered the Mirror to achieve, and more; she would have no recollection of this enemy who had captured her heart and made her his prisoner with a mysterious challenge that threatened everything she held dear. And she did not know how much time she had left outside the Mirror until her time to answer his challenge expired; she had two weeks at most, if no time had passed at all. But even two weeks were not enough time to gain back all she had learned about him, all the clues that she had yet to piece together to construct the elusive answer to his threat. And the thought of the utter waste of such a choice dug into her heart. She suddenly knew then how Mozenrath must have felt when his mother had presented him with the idyllic picture of an alternate life. To turn his back on the long, arduous road he had traveled for his whole life would have meant forsaking how hard he had worked, all the sweat and blood he had poured out to reach his current place. How much he had sacrificed, both of himself and of others, namely the woman he loved. Likewise, the difficult, torturous journey of discovery and self-revelation that Jasmine had taken in the Mirror would all come down to nothing if she chose to erase it now. The stronger, wiser woman she had become through the trials of the quicksand of time would be no more.

_Tell me, Princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?_

The haunting words echoed in her head, capturing the essence of her dilemma. The choice tore at her, weakening her to the point where she could not stand on her feet any longer. But before she sank to her knees, she felt the calm hands of Raniye's spirit on her shoulders, holding her up gently but firmly.

"Your heart is strong," she repeated, her unblinking eyes boring into hers with patience and understanding of her pain. "Strong enough to choose, and live on."

"How can I…" Jasmine said, her voice cracking in broken desperation. "How can you ask me to make this choice? I can't…it's impossible…"

"You knew from the start that the knowledge of these sands would come at a cost," Raniye said evenly. "The time for the final payment has come."

"I can't do it." Her voice rose in slight hysteria. "Let me out of this Mirror. I want to leave, now."

"Your time to leave has already been decided, Princess," Raniye said sadly. "You cannot change it."

Jasmine slumped forward, all the strength sagging out of her, but the princess' spirit did not let her fall.

"Sometimes we are given choices that do not seem like choices at all. We are told that we have free will when none of the paths we face are actually free. This is a burden we all must bear at one point or another."

Jasmine raised her head and saw the depths of sympathy and understanding in the princess' eyes. And she suddenly felt ashamed to stand before this resilient woman who had been cast into a pit of suffering so deep that most others would have withered and died under the same circumstances. She had lived through the torture of rape, enslavement, and silence, caged in a dark land that offered no relief and harbored no light. And yet her heart had still pulsed with the strength to love another person, extending compassion to her fellow prisoners. She had never had a choice. She had simply been thrown onto a path and forced to walk its thorny ground until the day of her death, which had been her only freedom.

Jasmine mustered the courage to stand then, straightening her shoulders and returning the princess' gaze with new strength born from necessity.

"How much time has passed outside the Mirror?"

"Perhaps a minute. Perhaps a day. Perhaps a week. Or perhaps not even a second," Raniye replied, and Jasmine felt her heart sink further. "You must make the choice regardless."

Maybe…maybe there would be a way for her to regain the memories she would lose, Jasmine thought as a last, desperate hope. Maybe Genie or Eden could heal her mind and bring back what she had lost. Maybe there was some potion or spell that could make it all right again. She clung to the memory of Sadira's massive sand spell that had changed history, making her and Aladdin forget each other. They had still loved each other despite the power of the witch's magic. Perhaps memory was not necessary for love. Perhaps love was ingrained in the very fabric of one's being and could not be erased or unthreaded even by the loss of one's past.

The Chryilian princess was waiting patiently for her answer. Jasmine took a breath and spoke the words that would change her life more than any before.

"I choose to forget Aladdin."

She closed her eyes and braced herself for the pain, for the inevitable return of the sand which would dig its claws into her mind and forcibly extract the precious, irreplaceable memories of the man she loved. A tear trickled down her face, but she did not break down. Not yet. It was not yet over.

She waited, but there was no pain, no familiar grasp of sand around her limbs. She opened her eyes then as the Chyrilian princess placed one hand on her forehead.

"The choice itself is pain enough," she said gently, and moved her thumb across Jasmine's skin. "The payment is made."

Jasmine blinked, not comprehending what was happening. Raniye removed her hand from her face and stepped back, her form beginning to fade into the darkness.

"Wait!" Jasmine reached out one hand, a thousand questions still racing through her mind.

"Be strong, Princess…" Raniye bowed her head once more and disappeared.

She stared into the blackness surrounding her. And she found that when she turned her mind toward Aladdin, all she had was a name and the cold knowledge of facts. He was a street rat and her fiancé. He had once loved another woman who was now dead. The only firsthand memory that remained was the surreal carpet ride in the Mirror, a scene she had fabricated on her own. She shut her eyes and searched deep in her mind, scouring for more information, more images and sounds and feelings, and found nothing. She repeated his name in her head, trying to trigger any kind of reaction from her subconscious, any hidden pockets of memory that might remain. There was still nothing.

She felt…empty. It was the most accurate word she could use to describe it. She had expected to feel heartrending agony alongside the physical pain of her mind being clawed to pieces by the magnitude of her loss. But with the soft touch of the princess' hand, her memories had simply vanished. Perhaps it was an act of mercy. She would never be able to figure out the full nature of the Mirror of Fiereve, how it crushed her with open malice and cruelty along with soft words and underhanded implications.

She asked herself then if she still loved Aladdin, a man she knew but had forgotten. She tried to relax and think of what he meant to her now that she hardly knew him. Clinging to the one beautiful memory that still remained, a brief nighttime carpet ride across endless desert, she remembered that he was a good man. She saw love in his eyes when he looked at her, though he had only known her for a short while. She saw innocence and bravery and devotion. The other memory she had was indirect, a scene of his past shown to her by the Mirror, a sordid look into the underbelly of Agrabanian society. It pained her to picture his face amidst the smoke of a prostitute's den. But she recalled her own assertion of love for him in spite of the fact that he had loved another woman before. She hung onto her own words, how she had described him in answer to his question.

He had a heart of gold. He had saved her from her prison of bitterness and selfish rebellion. He believed in her. And he loved her for who she was.

That was enough, wasn't it? It was more than enough, more than what she had hoped the Mirror would leave her with. Although she could not remember the adventures they must have had together, the loving words he must have spoken to her on many occasions, the laughter and the tears they must have shared in the ups and downs of their relationship, she held onto the hope that they could at least start again. He still loved her. And she could learn to deepen her love for him again, adding substance to the blank slate that was her recollection of him. The foundation for their love was still threaded into her being, though the Mirror had taken away its color and shape and detail.

She almost wept in relief then at the affirmation that love was indeed stronger than evil. That even the darkest ancient magic could not remove it from her heart. It was enough for now.

She opened her eyes to a dark room that lit up in a brief flash of gold. Bookshelves lined the walls, and there were several tables spread haphazardly with scrolls, potions, loose parchment, and objects she could not identify. The long windows at the far end of the wall were half-covered by deep blue curtains, blocking what little light filtered in from the dark sky outside.

Mozenrath stood beside one of the tables, dressed in the blue and black robes he wore the last time she had seen him in person. His figure was thinner than before, shoulders drawn in tension, his face pale and gaunt. He was hunched over, leaning on his elbows, seemingly too weak to stand. She drew closer and saw his face was screwed tightly in concentration, sweat trickling down his brow. His left hand glowed feebly, trembling to maintain whatever spell he was attempting. He moved it shakily over his uncovered right arm. The sight of stark white bone turned her stomach, but she did not look away. She had to watch every second of this scene carefully and absorb every detail, no matter how small.

As he touched two fingers to his ruined arm, the dull glow in his hand suddenly sparked and cast off a trail of smoke. He jerked his hand back as if it had been burned, a vivid string of curses flying from his mouth. Then he collapsed against the table and rested his head beside sheaves of papers filled with messy writing and several worn, heavily perused books.

She looked closer at the papers, assuming the handwriting was his. Some of it was illegible or written in foreign languages. But she caught some words and phrases that she could recognize. Most of them seemed to be ingredients or magical terms. _Ermine's claw, breath of oleander, Vasalia – 23, Ziro's law of incarnation. _Others were directions for spells, measurements of certain materials he needed to concoct potions or conjure things she could not comprehend.

She waited for him to speak, to give away any hint of what he was thinking. Casting a glance around the room, she noticed that his familiar was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he preferred to work alone, especially when he was this exhausted. She imagined he was not in the best mood to bear anyone's company, even that of his most loyal subject.

He lay there with his eyes shut for another few seconds, looking more tired and worn down then she had ever seen him. She thought about the spell he had just attempted. Since she had met him, she had never seen him cast a spell without his gauntlet. He seemed incapable of doing magic without it. Perhaps as time passed, the gauntlet had established itself as the only channel for his power.

The accursed object lay several feet away from him on another table, beside the glowing hourglass Mirage had bound him to. The top compartment was nearly empty now, signifying that the goddess would soon return to take the Land of the Black Sand and end his brief, hard-earned rule. Jasmine then realized that she probably had no intention of letting Mozenrath live after that. In fact, the hourglass was likely a marker of the time he had until death.

It explained why he seemed so weak as of late. She recalled that he had already tried to extend his life by switching bodies with someone…had it been Aladdin? After his plan had failed, Genie had sent him back to his Citadel in a typically humiliating fashion. They had stored the gauntlet in a safe room in the palace, but it had mysteriously disappeared a short time later. Genie had confirmed that no one had broken in to take it from its magically sealed box. It had simply vanished. Perhaps the gauntlet was truly inseparable from the sorcerer, just as he had told her.

He slowly raised his head and dragged himself along the table toward the hourglass. He collapsed on the floor when he reached the table's edge, lying on his side and cradling his bleached white arm. His face was a mask of pain, the tightly pressed line of his mouth barely restraining a cry of agony.

He fumbled in his robe with his healthy hand and drew out a small vial with trembling fingers. Uncorking it, he downed it in one gulp and tossed it away. He grimaced and held down the liquid, looking like he was on the brink of retching. Several tense seconds passed, and his expression eased. His hands stopped shaking and he rose to his feet, his strength seemingly restored.

He approached the table where his gauntlet and the hourglass rested. He stared blankly at the glove for a second, his right hand twitching as if it longed for the embrace of the cold leather. But he refrained from taking it, focusing his attention on the hourglass instead. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His lips moved in the longest spell Jasmine had seen him chant thus far. The strands of his hair that were unbound by his headdress lifted slightly in an invisible wind, and his face grew pale with the strain of calling forth magic without the gauntlet to channel it. A pulsing red glow surrounded his left hand, and he opened his eyes and tentatively picked up the hourglass, turning it over on its head. Its sands continued to flow in the predetermined direction, now upward instead of downward. The aura faded from his hand, and he turned away from the table in disgust. He shut his eyes in deep concentration, willing himself to stay calm despite his frustration and weakness.

It was apparent he was trying to save his own life somehow, to stop or reverse the sand in the hourglass. She could see him thinking hard about what to do next, but it seemed he was running dangerously low on options.

He walked to the nearest bookshelf and scanned the bindings of his vast collection. Jasmine watched his face, trying to decipher his thoughts when he was not verbally revealing any of them. She was beginning to feel anxious, as she had yet to see any hints about his ultimate plan or the role she had to play in it. Alongside her worry were disappointment and heartache; had she given up all her memories of Aladdin just to witness this vague, unhelpful scene?

He drew a book from the shelf with his left hand and strode to the nearest table. Jasmine followed quickly, seeing he was in a sudden rush to peruse its pages. There was a spark of dark inspiration in his eyes, and he began flipping pages in haste. Jasmine tried to keep up but could not identify what part of the miniscule text he was paying attention to. And then, almost as abruptly as he had opened the book, he shut it firmly and left it on the table as he went back to the hourglass. Jasmine caught a glimpse of the binding before she followed. _Prohibitionary Theory._

He planted his hands at the corners of the table as he stared sharply at the glove and the hourglass once more. Jasmine wished direly that he would say something, to let out just one clue of what he was thinking and what he planned to do. It was hard to imagine this was the night he had devised a way to take over the Seven Deserts if he was clearly focused on survival alone.

His lips curled into a smirk of triumph, and he reached for the hourglass with his skeletal hand this time. Turning it over to its rightful position, he watched the fluorescent sand flow downward once more, and somehow it no longer seemed to bother him. His eyes flashed in dark excitement as he spoke softly.

"Couldn't hurt to try."

Her mind was working frantically to puzzle out what he was thinking, what lay behind this baffling scene. She was certain she had just witnessed the birth of his supposedly ingenious plan, a plan that was somehow connected with the hourglass.

Was his plan merely to survive? Had he been bluffing when he had claimed he would take over everything?

She only had a scattered array of clues to piece together. It was not nearly enough. All that she had seen of his life so far had taught her what power meant to him and how he justified his desire for conquest, but she realized with deep frustration that it had been of little use in the end. The room was already fading around her. The color and light quickly drained from her surroundings, and she was left standing in blankness once again. Her nails dug into her palms as she tried not to panic or break down with the utter helplessness she felt.

A chilling voice snapped her out of her brooding thoughts.

"My dear princess."

She recognized that voice with dread. Backing away, she cast her gaze anxiously around her, on heightened guard against the unseen form lurking in the darkness.

Her back hit a solid body, and strong hands gripped her arms. She flinched violently as warm breath brushed her ear, the smooth, deceptively pleasant voice speaking once again.

"What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"Why are you here?" she demanded, breaking his grip and whirling around to face him.

The old sorcerer smiled, revealing shining rows of immaculate teeth. It was a predator's grin, a grin she knew all too well from what she had seen of Mozenrath's life. She stared at him and felt sick, seeing that he, like Raniye, still bore the wounds he had sustained during the final battle.

"It's an important date," he said mysteriously. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

She backed away warily, her eyes helplessly fixated on the nasty burns on his skin, the dark crimson discoloring the front of his robe, the network of lash marks on his arms. She shuddered; at least the image before her was not that of the mangled, unrecognizable mass of flesh Mozenrath had turned him into in a fit of rage.

"Why did you do it?" she asked simply. Something was stirring within her, extending its sharp claws and testing them against the walls of her heart. She breathed in as calmly as she could, but the air only served to fan the fire already rising inside.

He merely looked at her in questioning amusement.

She shut her eyes for a brief moment, feeling all the anger and hatred boil up inside her into a burning sea.

"Why did you have to destroy everything? Everything that was good and whole. Why did you always have to tear it down? Why did you have to ruin him? And Raniye…how could you do that to her? What _are_ you?"

Her hands curled into fists as she seethed, her accelerated heartbeat unable to keep up with the deep rhythm of her rage. And she saw red as he began to laugh, a low chuckle beginning at the bottom of his throat.

"It's not funny," she spat viciously, claws of rage straining to tear free of the confines of her heart. "It's not—"

"Oh, but can I help it if I think it is?" Destane interrupted, his sides still shaking with mirth. His pale blue eyes flashed knowingly. "Aren't you going to ask the Mirror to tell you my story? Aren't you curious as to how and why Lord Destane became the evil, depraved demoniac he is in your eyes? Aren't you itching to find excuses for my evil, perhaps a childhood of abuse, a misguided quest for enlightenment, or an experiment gone wrong that drove me to madness? Or are you only interested in sympathizing with younger evil, like my apprentice?"

She was shocked into silence. The thought had never occurred to her that Destane, like Mozenrath—like any human being—had a rich history, a history that might explain how he had become the most merciless, evil being she had ever seen, how he had decided to take such a dark path of destruction and conquest.

He saw from the sudden bewilderment in her eyes that he had driven his point home. His grin widened. "Never can expect too much from the brain of a princess. I always told Mozenrath that princesses should be seen, not heard," he said wryly. "Well then, let me tell you what you're now dying to know."

Before she could blink, he vanished and appeared just inches beside her, his face lowered to her level. She flinched as he whispered in her ear.

"There is no reason."

She drew back in disgust and horror at his sibilant voice and cold words, staring at his grinning face in disbelief as he continued.

"Well, perhaps there once was. Before I was drawn by the allure of the black sand and realized the truth of life, that concepts like good and evil are of little consequence in the shadow of power. Human existence is only the seventy or so years you can make out of it, at best. Why not do whatever pleases me? Why bother to care about the other pathetic, crawling life forms that infest this earth with their useless search for meaning and moral waste? Why not challenge myself to the utmost of my limits, and challenge this wretched earth to the outermost strain of human life? The Seven Deserts have never seen such a man as I. A man who dares to take and kill and destroy without qualms, who truly lives in perfect harmony with the beast that slumbers inside all of us. The beast that is starting to awaken in you, Princess," he said, tapping the side of her skull with one bloodied finger.

She stumbled back in consternation, unwilling to believe what he was saying even as the claws of hatred pricked at her insides. "You're sick."

His laugh was short and cruel. "We all are. That's what makes us human…more or less."

A distant toll of bells turned his attention away from her. He seemed to focus on something far off in the darkness, and closed his eyes briefly in a contented smile. "Ah. It's time. Come with me quickly, or we'll be late."

She jerked away from his hand. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He disappeared again, and she whirled to find him on her other side, looking down at her with cool amusement. Before she could run, his hand gripped her arm above the elbow in an iron hold, and she could not break free no matter how she twisted and struggled. She tried to strike at him, only to find her own hands passing through his spirit, while his grasp on her remained solid and immovable.

"Hmm," he mused to himself, ignoring her cries of protest. "The dress code."

To her astonishment, she was suddenly covered in a long dress, heavy with numerous folds of crimson and gold, her neck and wrists weighed down by rings and bangles of precious metal. Her vision was obscured by a dark veil that chimed with jeweled ornaments hanging from her head covering.

"What is—"

He cut her off brusquely, dragging her forward with him to some unknown destination. "What did I say about being seen, not heard? This is your day, Princess, for exactly that!"

Air swept by her at bewildering speed, the veil blurring her view of what was happening, where he was taking her through the darkness. Panic rose within her; she still could not break free, and the knowledge of what kind of outfit she was wearing suddenly sank into her stomach with deep dread.

"No…where are you taking me?!" she cried.

They stopped moving, and she stumbled forward on her own momentum before skidding to a halt. He did not let go of her arm as he walked forward calmly now, forcing her to fall into step beside him. There was utter silence all around her, the kind that was heavily filled with suppressed sound. Through the sides of her veil she could see they were walking down a narrow aisle, and they were surrounded by dark forms, emaciated legs covered in worn fabric, tattered cloth shoes all facing forward. Her stomach lurched in fear and revulsion as she realized what they were.

"Let me go," she pleaded. "Let me out of here now!"

"That's no way to speak to your future father-in-law," Destane said pleasantly. "Well, foster father-in-law, if you insist on accuracy."

She tugged her arm uselessly, making a last attempt to wrench free, but his supernatural strength and her heavy clothing only made movement more difficult. She stumbled on the hem of her long dress, but he caught her effortlessly, and they continued on. She was breathing hard now, trying to calm her racing heart, reminding herself that this wasn't real, that it was all just another illusion, a game to set her on edge, or perhaps to send her over the edge at last. The Mirror's last laugh before it released her from its suffocating sands. It had been too much to expect kindness from the evil object. Her encounter with the kind Chyrilian princess had probably been a ploy to throw her off guard.

They passed countless rows of the silent, undead figures standing quietly in expectation all around them, the deathly stillness in the room broken only by her hitched breaths and shaken footsteps. They ascended several carpeted stairs, and Destane stopped walking. He let go of her arm and gave her a firm push forward, laughing lightly. "Enjoy the night, Princess."

He vanished behind her, his spirit fading into mist. With her now free hand she reached for her veil, only to feel cool fingers grip her wrist and stop her movement. She froze, not breathing, as an unseen figure drew her up the remaining stairs to the top of the raised platform in the hushed, deathly sanctuary.

"Patience, Princess," his voice said calmly, and she reeled at the confirmation of her fears.

She felt the drip of warm liquid on her forehead, soaking through the thin fabric of the veil to adorn her skin. She reached up to swipe at it, terrified by what it might be, but he again stayed her hand.

"Ceremonial paint," he said simply, "for the altar."

He lifted her veil then, and in a brief moment she caught a full glimpse of her surroundings; they were standing in a vast, dark hall filled from wall to wall with a sea of the undead, their sallow faces watching their master and his bride-to-be in stony silence. She turned to the side and saw a polished wooden altar, standing in pureness and sinister gloom as both the dais of matrimony and the bench of sacrifice. And finally she saw him, clad in the elegant dark robes he always wore, black, indigo and gold complementing each other perfectly on his lean frame. His dark eyes watched her without emotion.

She ventured to touch her forehead again, and her fingers came away crimson. Choking down a shout of panic, she turned and tried to run down the stairs, to escape this hellish place and the man standing expectantly before her.

And again, his hand caught her by the wrist, dragging her back toward him and granting her no quarter. His other arm encircled her waist and drew her roughly against him, and she was forced to stare at his pale, unsmiling lips only inches away. She looked up frantically into his cool midnight eyes, focused on her with aloof interest.

She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed away with all her might, striking at him with her fists. His grip on her only tightened, crushing the breath out of her lungs.

"Stop, Mozenrath," she gasped, tears stinging her eyes. "Let go of me. Let go, please!"

He looked down at her with a smile of measured detachment. "You first."

He leaned down slowly as if savoring each second of her pain and fear, amused by the struggles of his cornered prey, and began to whisper lightly against her skin.

"I can open your eyes…

"And take you…

And there's no one to tell us no."

She shuddered, cringing from his hot breath against her skin, taunting her, twisting the remnants of the beautiful song into a deeply intimate horror story. Cold lips brushed her cheek lightly, enticingly, as he continued.

"Hold your breath – it gets better…or worse…"

He chuckled as her heartbeat quickened, the air hitching in her throat, unable to enter her lungs in his suffocating embrace.

"For richer, for poorer…

"In sickness and in health…"

His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her upwards so that their lips were inches from each other. He smiled.

"Til death do us part."

Her heart froze in her chest as he pressed his lips upon hers in a hard, ruthless kiss, his embrace constricting her until her sight began to blacken. Her lungs gasped desperately against his mouth, seeking air but finding no window, and her vision swam in dizzying stars as his tongue silenced her scream before it could even begin.

At the sudden prick of pain in her heart, she imagined that the loss of air had finally begun to suffocate her vital systems. But then the pain exploded into a sharp spear of white-hot agony, paralyzing her entire body. She felt the warm dribble of liquid down her chest, staining the inner folds of her dress, and with the next feeble pound of her heart, it poured out of her in a copious wave. She coughed against his mouth, and he finally released her, giving her enough space to breathe and realize what he had done.

She looked down and saw the knife protruding from her chest, over her heart, and his gloved hand around the hilt. And she felt the foundation of her world crumble and fall, everything beginning to swirl into a senseless mix of pain and disbelief, the immutable knowledge that she had seconds to live. The imminent approach of death stiffened her limbs with dread, as if she were already one of his lifeless soldiers.

"Why…"

The last thing she saw before she faded into oblivion was the unearthly image of his pale, handsome face, watching her with a coldly affectionate smile.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

She opened her eyes to darkness.

Her breaths were shallow, hesitant, as if most of her allotted air was escaping from the gaping tear in her chest before it could reach her lungs. She blinked slowly, her eyelashes weighted by droplets of water. She still saw nothing.

Her heart pattered feebly as she wondered if she were really in that place that was not actually a place but a state of being…or not being. Perhaps the Mirror had never intended to let her out alive.

But she still had a heartbeat.

She blinked again in delayed reaction to the sting of something sharp cutting into her palm. She shut her eyes then, taking her first deep breath, and found that the air entered her lungs without obstruction. There was no gaping tear in her chest. She was in the physical world once again. A world that was solid, tangible, and heavy with reality.

She lifted her hand, feeling her brain slowly reconnect with her physical senses, and realized that she was sprawled across a hard surface on her stomach. The cut on her hand began to bleed. Her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, making out vague shapes in front of her and above her. She craned her neck up to see the gray outlines of a bed and a divan. Gingerly she picked herself up off the ground, standing upright on unsteady feet, and felt the light crunch of glass under her delicate shoes.

She looked down and saw the faint glitter of countless pieces of shattered glass strewn all around her. She turned and her arm brushed the hard surface of her dresser. She was in her room. The Mirror had let her out after all. But it was completely dark. Was it past midnight? How long had she been gone?

Still half-dazed, she fumbled on her dresser for the lamp that she had lit ages ago while writing her biography. There was a brief clink as her hand knocked over a small object before she found the lamp had been overturned and snuffed out. Her hand paused upon contact with the rough edge of the Mirror's frame, drawing back in time to prevent splinters from digging into her skin. The frame lay flat on her dresser with the glass surface facing down.

She clumsily managed to light the lamp, and by its dim flame she finally realized what had happened.

The glass on the floor was the shattered remains of the Mirror.

She did not remember leaving its sands, but apparently her reentry into the physical world through the frame had knocked over the Mirror and smashed the glass into thousands of fragments. She stared down at the deadly object, now silent and unassuming, seemingly nothing more than an old, unpolished wooden frame. She never would have imagined that such a powerful, ancient object could be broken so easily. Perhaps she would never find out its secrets now. But at the very least, no one else would have to suffer the devastating cost of its power.

She reached for the book she had written. The top was covered in glass debris. She paused in brushing it off as her fingers encountered wet ink. Half of the parchment was soaked through. She must have overturned the ink bottle when she was fumbling with the lamp. Peering closer, she could barely make out the warning note she had scrawled before entering the Mirror. The words were heavily smeared, as they had not yet dried.

Which meant hardly any time at all had passed since she had entered the Mirror.

She stood silently, trying to think, but her mind was simply too weary. She had lived someone else's life for almost twenty years, and now all of it was once more buried in the invisible quicksand of history. It was as if she had come out of a long dream, or rather, a prolonged nightmare, that seemed less and less real with each minute that passed.

She looked down at the blood seeping from the cut on her hand. It was just starting to clot, but it began bleeding anew as she clenched her hand experimentally into a fist, smearing across her palm to mix with the black ink from the parchment. It was strange to feel the sensation of pain in a place other than her mind and heart. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing herself to relax, to ease herself out of the shock of passing into death only to pass out of it a moment later.

He'd killed her.

Something in her chest twisted at the crisp memory of the knife breaking her skin and piercing her heart. How he'd almost suffocated her, how she hadn't even been able to scream from the agony of the mortal wound. And how she'd looked up at him at the last moment and seen his unapologetic, serene features as he watched her die.

What had happened? Had he been in the Mirror waiting for her? Had it been just another one of the Mirror's tricks to push her closer to the edge, its final sinister triumph before she left its evil sands? She did not know, and she was too tired to wonder. She wanted nothing more than to rest, to sink into blessed sleep and lie unmoving, unthinking, undreaming for days.

She braced herself against the back of the chair by her dresser, the strength seeping out of her lower body as she sank into the cushioned seat. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and forced herself to think.

His unrelenting grip on her waist, the suffocating force of his lips upon hers, the words he had spoken that had killed her softly…they had been all too real. Maybe he had actually been there with her after all. Had she been playing into an elaborate trap of his the whole time?

But if he had actually been there, he would have exited the Mirror with her as well; he would have been here with her in her room at this very moment. Or he would have taken her to the Citadel with him if he wanted her as a prisoner. And what would he have gained from stabbing her in the chest and leaving her to die, only to let her out of the Mirror unscathed? It was a pointless fear tactic.

But had he meant for her to enter the Mirror? Had he known about her trip to Seripensia and into the Cave? If he had, then how far ahead had he been planning this? It seemed impossible, however, since she had first begun inquiring about the Land of the Black Sand of her own accord, and the old historian Thanon had her complete trust. Eberzin, on the other hand…had the old man received directions from Mozenrath to tell her about the Mirror? But even so, how could he have predicted that the Cave of Wonders would let her enter? And how could he have directed her journey inside a Mirror taken from a Cave that was off limits to him?

She threaded her fingers through her hair, pulling it tightly back from her scalp, willing her thoughts to continue flowing through the ruptured mess of her mind. She was undoubtedly missing something important in her numb state. But she couldn't stop thinking now. The game hadn't ended. As Mozenrath had once said to Xerxes, the world didn't stop turning for anyone, no matter how much pain and suffering one faced.

Her thoughts then turned to the Mirror itself. It baffled her that she had come across black sand more than once in her own memories; had the Mirror merely tailored her journey to fit the man she wanted so desperately to understand? Or was the Mirror itself connected somehow to the Land of the Black Sand? Perhaps she would have to find Eberzin again and ask him. But even then, she suspected he might lie to her or leave out important information as he had the first time. Asking Genie or Eden about it would only serve to arouse their suspicions; Iago was not a safe bet either. In any case, the price it had exacted from her was high indeed, and now she was at a loss for what to do after she had learned almost everything about the history of her enemy and lost almost everything about the history of her beloved.

Her fingers grasped the edges of the parchment, turning several pages to where she had written about Aladdin. Her handwriting was rushed and sloppy, but still legible. At that point in her writing, her wrist had begun to grow sore, and instead of full sentences she had resorted to short phrases and notes. He was her fiancé, born into poverty, lived on the street, had met her when she was almost sixteen…saved her from a fruit vendor who'd almost cut off her hand? Was that how they had met? She felt a small, sad smile touch her lips as she thought about what her first impression of him might have been, and what kind of man he might be beyond the rough sketch he had become to her.

She read on, noting that he had deceived her and her father by masquerading as a prince with an extensive, magically conjured entourage. So that was why he had been dressed in royal attire during the magic carpet ride in the Mirror. Then he'd gone on to save the kingdom from Jafar and many other magical and non-magical enemies, including Mozenrath. Her writing confirmed that Mozenrath had indeed tried to switch bodies with him, but fortunately had failed.

He was kind, humorous, rash at times, quick on his feet, loyal, playful, adventurous, bad at lying to her…and the descriptions wound on for several more lines.

Her writing came to an abrupt end at the edge of the ink spill.

She stared blankly at the parchment. What about their most precious moments together? Why hadn't she written any context for those positive traits so she could imagine him in the flesh, not as a string of descriptors on paper? She had empty words and facts, nothing of substance; she could only try to imagine his mannerisms and way of speech, how he acted toward her, how he expressed his love toward her.

And they were supposed to be married soon, she had written. The closeness of the date bewildered her. How could she marry a man who was essentially a stranger to her now? She knew she loved him, but she knew nothing about him!

Another thought twisted her stomach with dread. How would he react when he noticed she didn't remember him? He would surely realize something was wrong within seconds the next time they spoke. She no longer knew how to act around him, what kind of habits they had established between them, how he expected her to treat him. What was she to do? And how could she continue to hide her secret regarding Mozenrath's challenge?

She bit her lip and shut her eyes tightly, wishing all the questions would just disappear or answer themselves. But again, time and reality waited for no one. She would have no relief. Not until she solved the challenge and ensured her kingdom's safety.

She stared at the scattered shards on the table, where her reflection was fragmented into a hundred pieces. She could see the haunted look in her own eyes, the frayed ends of her sanity. She was plainly a wreck. How could she interact with anyone without arousing suspicions?

Her heart clenched as tears came unbidden to her eyes. She should not cry anymore. She had shed enough tears in the Mirror. She had dragged herself through enough trauma and disaster to last several lifetimes, and she had died and come back to life. What was left to weep for?

She could think of no answer, although she knew there were thousands of reasons. Too many to sort out in the tatters of her mind. So she pulled herself slowly toward her bed and lay down, cradling her wounded hand, staring at the clotting blood on her palm. She would sleep and forget about all that had transpired and all that was waiting for her to question, succumbing fully to the numb shock that had paralyzed her. She would start anew when she woke up. She would have to.

But as soon as she shut her eyes and began to drift away, she was jarred out of her deadened state by urgent shouts outside her door. She did not move for several seconds, hearing the familiar voices of guards and heavy footsteps pounding down the hall.

"…th…sultan!"

"…ecurity…lock off…."

She opened her eyes and listened, trying to decipher their words. She flinched as the gruff voice of Razoul suddenly sounded right outside her door.

"Princess Jasmine! There's an emergency! The sultan has been poisoned!"

The feeble patter of her heart in her chest stopped for a brief moment. And then it returned full force, the blood beginning to pound in her ears in tandem with Razoul's heavy fists against her door.

Her body moved faster than her mind, stumbling over the broken glass as she made for the door, the guard's message ringing in her mind. Her father…her father had been poisoned! Was he still alive? Who was responsible?

She had no time to wonder how her mind could still function at this point, how she managed to brush aside the nightmare she had just survived and operate purely on the basis of necessity. She flung open the door and stared up at Razoul's anxious, sweating face; the urgency of the moment prevented him from paying any heed to her disheveled appearance.

"What happened?" she demanded, the mantle of authority shifting onto her shoulders like a well-worn burden. She moved forward into the hall, forcing the guard to take several steps backward, and shut the door behind her.

Razoul spoke rapidly with the composed succinctness he carried in dire situations. "He was dining with advisors, your Highness. Several minutes ago the first man fainted. The sultan followed soon after. We—"

"Is he still alive?" Jasmine said sharply.

"Yes," the guard breathed. "But just barely; the jinni is sustaining him."

"Take me to him."

Seconds or minutes passed in a blur. She ignored the burn in her muscles and lungs as she ran closely behind the hulking form of Razoul, her body now unaccustomed to strenuous movement in the physical world. A brief spell of dizziness washed through her mind, but she shook her head to clear it, determined to go on. She could not afford to falter now, not when her father's life was in danger.

She suppressed the raging questions in her head, preventing them from driving her even deeper into madness. She would find the answers when she arrived by her father's side and saw the situation with her own eyes. Genie was there. Aladdin would probably be there as well. She brutally crushed the worrisome thought that she did not remember him. In such a dire situation, it did not matter whether she acted out of character toward him; they needed to save her father first and foremost.

What had been only a minute seemed like an hour as she finally raced into the room where her father often dined with his close advisors and friends. In her breathlessness she tripped over one of the cushions on the floor, but strong arms caught her at the last moment.

She looked up into the concerned eyes of Aladdin and froze. This was her fiancé, the love of her life. The man she no longer knew.

In the next second she pushed away from him and ran toward her father, hearing Aladdin's footsteps close behind her.

"Jasmine, it's all right. He's alive, Genie's not going to let him go," he said, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She did not reply as she looked down at her father, lying pale and motionless on a mattress Genie had conjured. Carpet, Abu, and Iago were there as well, looking on in anxious silence. The blue jinni stood right beside the sultan, his normally jovial face set in grave, rigid lines. There was no room for humor here.

She noticed her father's body was outlined in a soft blue glow. Genie's magic. She looked up at her friend, and he answered her unspoken question immediately.

"Magical poison. In the wine," he said grimly, motioning toward the upturned goblets on the floor. Dark liquid stained the rug and cushions. She stared at it as she listened to him explain. "I'm keeping the poison from spreading, Jas, but I can't get it out of his system. I'm already pushing the line here with mixing magics."

"What kind of magic is it?" she asked, kneeling down beside her father's small, prone form. Aladdin followed suit, his hand still on her shoulder.

"Dark," Iago said simply. "The high grade, 80 proof type."

She stared sightlessly in horror. Was this Mozenrath's doing?

"We don't know who did it," Aladdin said, his voice low with suppressed anger. "But we'll find out for sure, and they'll get what's coming to them."

"Come on Al, how many bozos do we know who throw around this nasty brand of magic?" Iago said, flapping up to perch on his shoulder.

"One too many," Aladdin answered tightly. "This isn't like any of them, though, to just poison the sultan and not show up to gloat or attempt a takeover."

"Genie, how long can your spell last?" Jasmine asked, her mind already racing toward possible solutions.

"For an indefinite time. But someone has to be here to guard him," he said, keeping pace with her thoughts. "Mr. or Ms. Wannabe Sultanicide probably won't be happy to know that the poison didn't instantly kill him."

So Genie or someone sufficiently powerful would have to stay here with her father while the rest of them went off to find a cure. Where should they even start looking?

"There must be an antidote," Aladdin said firmly. "I'm not going to sit around waiting for the assassin to show up while I could be saving the sultan's life."

"Two possibilities," Genie said. "The Tree of Renewal, and the Elixir of Life."

"Oh, this is going to be a swell adventure," Iago said, sweeping one wing over his eyes in resignation. "Two of the hardest places to get to without becoming lake monster chow, dog chow, or worm chow in the process."

Abu chattered angrily, scampering up Aladdin's back to give the bird an indignant shove.

"Hey!" Iago protested, almost losing his balance. "I didn't say we shouldn't go; it's just my job to point out the obvious!"

Aladdin turned toward her, grasping her hands as he looked into her eyes with grave urgency. She paused at what she saw in his gaze, the unvoiced love and genuine concern for her and her father.

"I'm going with Genie. You'd better stay here," he said, and put a finger to her lips before she could protest. His voice dropped in volume, edged with hesitancy. "You have to stand in for your father as the sovereign of Agrabah."

"But—"

He shook his head, having made up his mind, and she knew she could not change it. At the same time she felt a wave of gratitude wash through her. He understood his role and hers, that they were different and separate at this moment. Yes, she could contribute to the search for an antidote if she went along with him. But he could not command the kingdom like she could. He did not yet have that right, and he knew it all too clearly. She wondered then exactly what the people thought of him, a street rat soon to ascend the throne. Did they respect him? Was he well-liked, or was he a laughingstock? Judging from the worried look on his face, it was obvious he was insecure. She did not let him hesitate further.

"Go," she said shortly. "Genie, call Eden—"

"Already here, sweetheart," the female jinni said, having appeared a second earlier with a bewildered Dhandi in tow. Her brow furrowed in determination and indignation at what had happened. She placed a delicate hand on Genie's forearm while the other rested on her hip in a defiant pose. In a flash her bright pink attire morphed into a dark green and brown patterned outfit, her head covered in a round helmet of the same shade as her long-sleeved jacket and pants. "Off you go, men, on the double! We ladies'll hold down the fort here! Hup two!"

Aladdin was already on Carpet, Abu and Iago perched on his shoulders. Genie transformed into a similar character with a faint unshaven layer of hair on his stern face, and gave Eden a rigid salute. "Yes sir—er, ma'am! Let's roll out, boys!"

In a poof of magic, Genie transported them out of the room, leaving in his wake a cloud of sparkling dust. Jasmine watched as Eden changed back to her ordinary self and knelt down on the opposite side of the mattress, looking into her eyes with sincere care.

"Don't worry, your father will be all right," the jinni said in a warm, motherly tone. "I won't let this spell break. And we can count on our guys to fix up this situation in no time."

"Yeah, Aladdin and Genie always save the day!" Dhandi spoke up beside her. The young girl sat down cross-legged beside the jinni and gave Jasmine an encouraging smile.

"Thanks," Jasmine replied softly. But the worry did not fade from her mind at all. The thought that Mozenrath could be behind this was suffocating her slowly. Why would he choose to do this now? Was he already putting his ultimate plan into motion? And why hadn't he shown up yet to claim responsibility?

Behind them, Razoul coughed pointedly and stood at attention as he cut in. "Princess Jasmine, my men stand ready and awaiting your orders."

"Have them search the palace grounds for intruders. If it was a human assassin, they could still be in hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to escape at the first chance they get," she said quickly. "Also, dispatch some men to block off all the kitchens; don't let any of the cooks or servants there out of sight, but make sure no one is harmed. We just have to cover all our bases in case there are agents or hired hands working among them. Station a few guards outside this door, but most of your men should be scouring the palace and looking for the perpetrator. And find out where this wine came from."

"Understood, Your Highness," Razoul said swiftly, and backed out of the room with haste to pass her orders on to his underlings. Two of his subordinates remained as her personal guard, but they stood at a respectful distance, knowing she preferred more freedom of movement.

She placed a hand on her father's forehead; his skin was cool to the touch. She frowned, wondering how far the poison had spread before Genie had intervened. Eden's hand hovered over his torso, glowing light green as she cast more magic over him.

"Just reinforcing Genie's spell," she explained. "Your old man's tough, don't worry. And so's our magic. It'll keep him suspended in this state indefinitely."

"Will the Tree of Renewal really cure him though? Or the Elixir of Life?" she asked, her eyes not leaving his pallid, blank face.

As much as Eden was trying to make her feel better, Jasmine could hear the slight edge of uncertainty in her voice. "They're called the Tree of Renewal and the Elixir of Life for a reason, honey. At least one of them should do the trick."

Jasmine sat down heavily and covered her face with her hands. "I wish I could do something. But I'm just sitting here helpless!"

"That's not true!" Eden insisted. Dhandi nodded vigorously in agreement. "You've got some major responsibility on your shoulders, missy. Namely your father's authority over the kingdom!"

Jasmine did not reply, trying to stop the uselessly circular race of her thoughts. She knew about her responsibility. But that didn't make her feel any less powerless.

"I'm willing to bet one of our old pals is behind this," Eden said. She frowned as if recalling a bad memory. "Maybe that Mozenrath fellow, the little punk who drained me and Genie of our power!"

Jasmine did not move from her position, her face resting against her knees. She hoped Eden didn't notice the way her breath paused for a second, or how her heartbeat quickened. "Maybe," she said weakly.

"Or maybe it's someone we haven't faced yet," Eden conceded. She hadn't noticed Jasmine's discomfort, to her relief. "It seems every evil soul that roams the Seven Deserts eventually tries its hand at taking over Agrabah. Maybe we should be flattered?"

She stayed silent once again, not trusting herself to speak. The jinni gave her a curious look.

"Could this have to do with…" she trailed off, glancing at Dhandi for a split-second before continuing, "…the last time we met?"

Almost on reflex, Jasmine shook her head. She knew the jinni's suspicions would only increase from now on, and she feared suddenly that her secret trip to Seripensia would no longer be so secret once Aladdin and Genie returned.

"No, that has nothing to do with this," she said firmly. "Trust me."

"And you still won't tell me what you did there?" Eden asked with a worried frown. Dhandi looked back and forth between the princess and the jinni, clearly confused.

"Sorry, Eden," Jasmine said sadly. "I can't."

She stood from the floor, signaling the end of the tense conversation. She was still slightly shaken, but she steeled herself quickly. It was time to stop waiting around and start assuming her father's authority. She breathed in and out slowly, trying to arrange her thoughts. She would go to the throne room. She would call the advisors together for an emergency meeting. At this point, word might have already spread beyond the palace that the sultan had been poisoned. She would have to dampen the populace's fears—and the wily intrigues of any insurrectionist hopefuls—that he was in mortal danger, and make it clear that she was only on the throne temporarily in his place. He would recover soon and return to power. At the same time, she had to ensure that all her orders were obeyed respectfully and in a timely fashion. Perhaps this was the first real test of her authority. Before, she had issued commands to carry out her ideas for improvements to the kingdom, but only as a subordinate of her father. Now, she would be standing at the helm alone, and she could already feel the increased pressure weighing down on her. If she did not keep calm and composed, it would crush her.

"Go get 'em, girl!" Eden said proudly, pumping a fist in the air. She transformed instantly into a middle-aged, heavyset woman with heavily powdered features, bright red lips, and voluminous hair tied back in a bun. "Make momma proud!"

"Eden and I will watch your father!" Dhandi chimed in. "Don't worry, you'll do great!"

She nodded, smiling gratefully at the pair, and hurried from the room. She passed several elderly physicians at the door just as they rushed in. They cringed as they saw her, perhaps expecting a harsh reprimand for not being there the whole time.

"Your Highness, we just returned from fetching the medicines—"

"Arrange with the jinni to move him to a more comfortable room," she ordered, and moved on without a backward glance.

By the time she arrived in the throne room, trailed silently by her personal guard, the palace was under a subdued hush. Guards were everywhere, scouring every inch of the building for intruders and trying to keep order among the court nobles, officials, and servants who had left their customary duties and activities in the hope of finding out what was happening. She strode as calmly as she could toward her father's throne, her eyes fixed on the giant golden elephant above it, a symbol of stalwart strength and dignity.

She stopped right in front of it, refusing to sit on that hallowed seat while her father still lived. The guards flanking the throne watched her with masked curiosity. She ordered one of them to gather the top royal advisors for a meeting.

Several minutes later a dozen stately men of varying ages and responsibilities stood before her in slight apprehension, perhaps wondering how the young princess would fare in her father's shoes. She shook off the tendrils of doubt encroaching upon her and raised her chin.

"You have heard the news by now. The sultan has been poisoned," she said, her gaze sweeping over all their faces. She paused only for a second as she noticed Thanon was not among them. "But he is not in mortal danger as some are whispering. He will recover soon, and in the short time that he is resting, I will oversee the affairs of the kingdom in his place. Nothing else has changed. You will all perform your duties as usual. If any urgent matters arise, you will discuss them with me. Atares, assure the guilds that nothing is amiss. Muhab, you may tell the foreign dignitaries what has happened, but make it clear that it is not urgent and they should not have to send any messengers back to their kingdoms. And…"

She frowned. The question would not be still. "Where is Councilor Thanon?"

The advisors looked at each other uncomfortably, none of them wanting to speak. Her pointed gaze fell on the youngest man, who coughed politely and answered her with reluctance. "Councilor Thanon was with the sultan, Your Highness…he and Councilor Waqar were both poisoned as well. They are dead."

She felt a hollow pit of grief and shock open in her stomach, sucking away all her composure for a brief moment. She almost faltered but steadied herself, making it appear as if she had only shifted into a more authoritative posture.

They must have thought she was a blind fool not to know. Razoul had plainly told her that the other men in the dining room had also been poisoned. She had been in the very room where her father's councilors had died, and she had not even thought to ask! Their bodies must have been removed from the room before she had arrived, but didn't she have the sense to realize their fate?

She shoved the self-accusations away; it had been a grave mistake, but it was done and she could not cover over it now. She would just have a harder time proving herself now in front of these men.

"That is grievous news," she said steadily. "The loss of two faithful, valuable councilors in one night. When my father recovers, we will give them the proper state funeral they deserve."

And then she was struck by another alarming thought. How could she assure them that her father was safe when two men who had taken the same poison were already dead?

"We know where the antidote to the poison may be found," she said, hoping desperately that Genie was right. She took a calm breath before fully revealing their plan to save her father. "Aladdin is procuring it as we speak, and in the meantime the jinni's magic is preventing the poison from spreading through my father's body."

Her words elicited no visible reaction from the advisors, all of them having been schooled from childhood to wear pleasantly blank expressions in front of the royal family. But she imagined that behind those unreadable faces were mounting doubts and uncertainty at the situation and her new authority. The brief silence that followed was rife with unspoken tension. She dismissed them before it could accumulate further.

She almost sank back into the throne in weariness once the last of them was out of sight. But she could not touch that seat. Not yet.

She stopped that thought abruptly. In actuality, she would never sit upon the throne. Aladdin would, and she would stand at his side. The thought relieved and worried her at the same time. At the moment she was doing what came to her naturally, while he was doing what came to him naturally. It was bizarre to think that one day they would have to switch places. Or rather, he would have to do both, while she would stand as his support. But she had no time to worry about that now. She hoped that they would not have to come to that crossroads for a while yet, as long as her father lived. And he would live on for a long time, she told herself. This poison would not kill him. She would not let herself imagine that possibility.

She strode down the hall toward her own room, dismissing the two guards although they looked ill at ease in leaving their duty to protect her. Her head was a whirlwind of questions. Thanon, the kind old historian who had told her stories as a child and faithfully carried on his father's mission of freeing the oppressed, was dead. Had he been purposely targeted? Did Mozenrath have a reason to kill him? She was almost sure it was the sorcerer's doing. He hadn't shown up to gloat, but given his pattern of unpredictability starting with the presentation of his challenge, it wasn't a surprise that he was operating out of his normal paradigm.

Why would he want to kill her father and his advisor? Did he want to erase that idyllic past he could have had, the past that must have haunted him after his mother had revealed it to him? But why now, at the midpoint of the timeframe he had given her? None of it made sense to her. She despaired at how far behind she was, too slow to figure out what was going on. Even after a lifetime in the Mirror, seeking to understand who he was, she still understood nothing.

She stumbled into her room and shut the door, her eyes falling upon the shattered mess on her floor. She did not have the energy to clean it up now. Locking the door behind her, she made her way toward her bed, hoping to catch at least an hour of rest. If she tried to go on without it, she might make even more mistakes than she already had.

She lay down and sank into the mattress, rendered immobile in utter exhaustion. She finally removed the barrier of control she had set between what she needed to do and how much she needed to rest, and faded from consciousness almost immediately.

Her last thought was that she had no way of ensuring she would wake up in an hour.

***

14.

***

She was jarred awake by Genie's voice in her head. Disoriented, she caught the tail end of his message.

…_gone and we don't know why…_

"What?" she said aloud, struggling to open her heavy-lidded eyes.

_The Tree is empty, Jas. _ _No fruit on it at all. Can't tell how long it's been this way, either. _

"Then…then what?"

_We're going to get the Elixir of Life instead. We're going there as fast as we can!_

With that, his voice faded from her mind. She bit her lip to keep a cry of frustration from breaking the silence of her darkened room. What would they do if the Elixir of Life didn't work? Or if it wasn't there anymore, just like the fruit on the Tree?

She forced herself to sit up, her muscles aching. It was darker than before, and she was afraid she'd overslept by several hours. She should have asked Eden to wake her up, but the fact that the jinni hadn't sought her out was perhaps the one good sign in all of this. Her father was still stable.

For the first time in a long time she bowed her head and prayed in desperation, begging God that it would all be all right somehow. But right after she made that plea, she realized that what she needed more than anything right now was hope and strength. Aladdin and Genie wouldn't return for another few hours at the least. She had to hold out until then on her own strength, but she had spent it all in her harrowing journey through the Mirror.

"Please…" she begged in a broken whisper. She bent forward until her forehead touched her blanket. "Please, give me strength…"

Tears trickled from her eyes, staining her blanket invisibly. What would she do? What _could _she do?

She must have lived through many situations where life had seemed hopeless. Surely none of her and Aladdin's battles against their enemies had been easy. If she could just remember him, how he must have inspired her and given her hope through all the hardships they had faced, perhaps she wouldn't be mired in despair now. But she couldn't remember anything about him, couldn't remember how he had always come through in the end for her and the kingdom.

She flinched as the wide doors to her balcony suddenly swung open, a chilly breeze flowing in and raising goosebumps on her skin. Cautiously she tried to peer through the gauzy curtains, but could not see anything.

Fear suddenly spiked through her heart. She had locked those doors before she had entered the Mirror.

There was someone waiting for her on the balcony. Someone with the power to open locked doors from the outside.

She stared in terror at the waving curtains, frozen by the thought of who it must be. She could not face him now. She was not ready; she was defenseless and helpless. What if he killed her? What if he was angry that she had used the Mirror to unearth his past?

She shivered more from fear than the cold and drew her blanket tightly up around her shoulders, trying in vain to protect herself from what she knew she could not fight.

Several seconds passed, and he did not make an appearance. She still could not see the balcony clearly. The wind died down for a brief moment, allowing the gossamer curtains to settle over the open entrance.

She swallowed hard and made her first move toward unknown danger. There was no use waiting. She could run, perhaps, but what would that do? If he wanted to capture her, he could trap her long before she could reach the door.

Her legs shook as she stood from the bed and made her way toward the balcony, bracing herself against shelves and any other solid object she could cling to. Her hand unexpectedly brushed the jeweled hilt of a dagger on top of one shelf. She snatched it immediately as if it were her salvation, though she knew that a simple blade would not stop him. She unsheathed it and held it as steadily as possible at her side, trying to keep her fingers from trembling around its hilt.

She brushed aside the first curtain in one rapid motion, steeling herself to face him on the open balcony. But there was no sight of the familiar blue and black robes or the eerily calm smile of a young man. She blinked at what awaited her instead.

"Princess Jasmine."

She drew back at the aged voice, heavily accented and slow with deliberation. The gray-robed old man spread his arms wide to rearrange his long sleeves before folding his hands together. She stared speechlessly at his wrinkled, blindfolded face, the prominent nose and long white beard.

"F…Fashir?"

She took a step forward this time in disbelief, her tight grip on the dagger growing slack. It had been a long time since she had last seen him. Then she was suddenly on guard again, remembering that he had once turned her into a rat just to teach her a lesson. She had to hold a healthy respect for his powers and mysterious motives. None of them knew if he was actually on their side, or on anyone's side for that matter.

"Are you behind this?" she asked, her question almost stifled by the chilling breeze. She moved forward hesitantly, coming to stand in the middle of the balcony several feet away from him. "Did you poison my father?"

He shook his head gravely, his invisible eyes seemingly focused on her even though he appeared to be blind.

"No. That was an act of evil."

"Do you know who did it?" she said.

"To answer such questions is not my purpose," he said sternly. She closed her mouth, not wanting to tread wrongly around this frighteningly powerful enigma.

"Do you recall the lesson you once learned? Of the force that is ever triumphant?"

She shook her head. It seemed he always spoke in vague riddles.

His gaze seemed to sharpen though she could not see it, and it felt as if an intense light were scouring her mind from its surface to its dark, inner recesses. He must have seen that the tapestry of her memory lay in tatters.

"You may have forgotten the moment you learned of this truth, but your heart still knows; such knowledge cannot be removed once gained," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Love," he said simply. "All the legions of evil and hate in this world and beyond are no match for its power."

His artistic words resonated inside her, but she failed to see how they could help her now.

"But how can I save my father?" she asked. "Will the Elixir of Life work?"

He frowned severely, and she bowed her head, chastened. She waited for him to reprimand her for speaking out of turn, but no rebuke came.

"You know how to save your father," he said finally, answering her question though it distracted from his purpose. "But most knowledge sleeps until you awaken it."

Her hands clenched into fists in frustration. For a moment she didn't care how powerful he was. If he couldn't help her, then it was a waste of time to listen to his riddles. "But I don't know! None of us know, not even Genie. Only a miracle of…"

She paused, turning over what she had been about to say.

"…of a god…" she said slowly, staring in realization at Fashir's blindfolded eyes.

The old man bowed his head slightly, his creased frown turning into a small smile.

"Remember the truth," he said simply, floating backward and lifting into the air. The edges of his billowing robes began to fade. "Remember…"

She stared silently as he disappeared at last, leaving no trace of his presence on the balcony. Then she turned and raced into her room, her heart pounding with excitement and fear of her epiphany.

Just as she reached her bed, she heard Genie's worried voice in her head once again.

_The Elixir's gone too, Jas! The cup's empty, and the guardian worms are dead!_

She did not respond as she lay down quietly and closed her eyes.

_Jas? Jas, can you hear me? Did you just say something?_

She had whispered the name too softly for her friend to hear.

***

14.

The darkness enveloped her fully in its cold embrace. It had been ages since she had walked on air in this borderless realm, dealing with her greatest enemy on his terms and territory.

She heard his familiar, detached voice, addressing her in aloof cordiality.

"Welcome back, Princess."

She tensed as he appeared before her in a silent swirl of smoke, looking exactly the same as always, down to his cold eyes and enigmatic smile. She fought down the terror that seized her heart as she remembered the sharp pain of a knife spearing through her chest. That nightmare was over, she was still alive, and he would not harm her now—she hoped.

"I was afraid you'd gotten lost on your way home," he said nonchalantly.

The insinuations in his voice set her on edge, but she hardened her gaze and forced the fear out of her expression. She would not allow herself to become his source of amusement for the night. She reminded herself that he didn't hold all the cards. She now knew more about him than any person alive.

"I've missed you too, Mozenrath," she said sweetly, but did not smile. "But tonight I have more important things to worry about than your pathetic little game."

He cocked an eyebrow at her in mock ignorance. "Oh really? What could be of such dire importance, I'd love to know."

"My father is dying," she said bluntly, absent of all humor. _Almost certainly by your hand, _she almost added.

His look of exaggerated surprise and false sympathy sickened her to the core, mixing cruelly with her helpless attachment to him. The prettily veiled malice in his every word pricked at her heart; it was worse than every meeting they had had before, because she was not who she had been before, and he was no longer the same person he had been in her eyes and heart.

"What happened, Princess?" he asked in artificial concern. "Did someone lace his toys with poison?"

"His drink, actually," she said, refusing to rise to the bait. "I wonder who could have done such a horrible thing."

He had the audacity to fake a look of distress as he deflected her veiled accusation. "Indeed, what a horrible crime. I trust you and your virtuous street rat will ensure the perpetrator is brought to justice?"

"Of course," she said with an easy smile. "Although I'm not sure if he deserves justice."

He returned her smile hollowly, and with a leisurely gesture the familiar table and cushions appeared between them. But there was no tea or wine this time; the surface of the wood remained empty. He seated himself and motioned for her to join him.

She sat and watched him warily from across the table, waiting for him to make the next move or to drop the façade altogether.

He chose the second option much sooner than she had predicted.

"In truth, Princess, I have nothing to do with poisoning your father." He put his hands up defensively as she narrowed her eyes at him. "I would have done it sixteen days from now, if anything. But such a simple, crude assassination plot doesn't suit my tastes. You should know that by now."

Ignoring the insinuation in his last sentence, she gave him a skeptical look. She couldn't completely trust him, even though his excuses sounded valid.

"If you didn't do it, then who did?"

"Come on now, Agrabah has even more enemies than I do," he said in slight indignation. "Why am I the only one under suspicion?"

She shut her eyes briefly, waiting for her patience to replenish itself.

"I'm not going to bother answering that. But I have a proposal to make," she said. "I want you to save my father."

He turned his head slightly as if trying to hear her better. His self-assurance confirmed that he was indeed capable of fulfilling her request. "And…?"

"Name your price."

He laughed in her face. "An open-ended proposal? Oh Princess, I thought you'd moved beyond that level of irrationality even if you never did pay attention in your lessons."

She bristled, planting her hands on the empty table between them and leaning forward with the clear aura of a challenge. Her heart began to race involuntarily at their sudden proximity, her face mere inches from his.

"I don't have time for your ego trips," she said tensely, her gaze riveted on his cool, dark irises. His smooth, pale lips were just at the rim of her vision; she suppressed a shudder as she remembered the feel of them upon her own, brutally crushing the remaining breath out of her. "Can you save him or not?"

He returned her glare with indifference, seemingly unfazed by their sudden closeness. "Solve my challenge, and your father will be saved."

She fought down the urge to punch him in the face, opening her mouth to retort. But she closed it just as quickly, thinking hard about the perilously insane idea that had just popped into her mind.

She spoke slowly but resolutely, praying all the while that she was making a wise gamble, if there was such a thing.

"What if I agree to be your prisoner?"

Perhaps this was the first time she had managed to catch him off guard since she had lifted him by his cloak and dropped him into the path of the Crystal of Ix. She wished she could capture his look of intrigued surprise and preserve it in a painting. Her feeling of victory was short-lived, however, as the heavy consequences of her proposal began to sink into her heart. And as his surprised expression turned into one of darkly calculating interest, she had to struggle not to shrink back and reveal the sudden weakness that had numbed her insides. She forced down the fearful knowledge that he was thinking faster than her, that he could see farther and wider than her over the implications of her hastily delivered proposal, and that he was smirking at her now because he knew of his advantage.

"I'm going to have everything under my power at the end of thirty days anyway, Princess. Are you giving up early?"

She stared back at him in defiance. "Did I say I was giving up? I just want to save my father."

"I'm sure," he said smoothly. He propped his head on one hand and tapped his cheek with one finger in thought. She could see that his frighteningly intelligent mind had already processed everything she hadn't yet considered about her proposal. Again she had to fight back the urge to cringe at her own oversight. She had to trust herself, that her gut instincts were right, that no matter how much he schemed and manipulated her through this unexpected plan, she would still win in the end.

He watched her with knowing, confident eyes. He knew what she was aiming for through this seemingly radical concession, but neither of them would say it aloud. The pretenses of civility hadn't fallen yet, and neither of them was willing to be the first to drop them.

He knew she had entered the Mirror to find out about his past and his ultimate plan. And he must have suspected that she had searched for the scene where that plan had first materialized in his mind. The scene where he had rapidly perused a book of theory and turned his triumphant gaze upon the hourglass that spelled his doom. And so he knew that her intent for entering his Citadel as his prisoner was to investigate the meaning behind that mysterious string of events.

She was putting everything on the line with no guarantee of victory. If she became his prisoner, it was fully possible that he'd just lock her up in a dungeon and never let her anywhere near that room. But as he had said, such simple and crude plots were not of his taste. And if he wanted to throw her in the dungeons, he would have done so already.

She knew that she still held some important cards. Judging by the fact he hadn't harmed her at all in the past two weeks and had actually saved her life on one count, she knew that her health and continued existence were vital to him. He wouldn't hurt her or lock her up. She would be more than a mere prisoner to him.

She consciously avoided the continuance of that thought, not wanting to imagine where such close proximity to the dark sorcerer for the sixteen remaining days could lead. Hopefully it would not take her long to discover what it was she needed. And if she foiled his plan…then what? Was it even something that could be foiled? He had said it was foolproof, and that he'd give it up if she actually uncovered it, but who was to say he'd keep his word upon her victory?

She swallowed the unsettling questions for now. The urgency of the moment demanded action, and she had to be decisive. There was no turning back if she moved forward, and she could not afford to falter in front of him.

"So do you accept or not?" she said curtly.

His smile widened slightly. "I must admit I am a bit shocked that you're in such a rush to cohabitate with a man who is not your fiancé, Princess. I suppose it is flattering as well."

She glared at him, her face hot with embarrassment. "Or maybe I'm in a rush to save my father's life, you sleaze."

"Of course," he said easily. She could see the gleam of his teeth in his handsome smile, and suddenly felt like she was walking directly into a lion's den. But she knew that he was her best bet for healing her father. If a nearly ageless jinni's ideas for saving him had failed, then she had no one else to turn to but Mozenrath, given the time constraints. If she allowed her father's comatose state to continue indefinitely, she would have to assume authority over the throne, a duty that she was not ready for and not meant to take on as a woman. Her more immediate concern was that as the provisional head of the kingdom, she would not have any time to deal with Mozenrath's challenge.

"What's your decision, Mozenrath?" she said testily. "Might be your only chance to enjoy the company of a flesh and blood woman whose flesh and blood aren't rotting."

He actually laughed at her jab. "Touché. You know, this might actually be a pleasant experience for the both of us. But for your street rat…maybe not so much."

"You wouldn't tell him," she said, lowering her tone subconsciously. She suddenly thought of how wrong it was that she had chosen such an unsavory course of action without even considering how her fiancé would react. But despite the terrible guilt she felt, she could not tell him.

None of her friends could find out about this. She would have to disappear on them without explanation, leaving only the broken Mirror and a handwritten book of facts about her life. For sixteen days, they'd be in the dark about where she was and what had happened to her…unless Genie or Eden recognized the Mirror. But even then, they wouldn't know why she had used it. Aladdin would undoubtedly be worried sick, not to mention her father when he woke up. And Mozenrath would probably be one of the first enemies they would suspect of kidnapping her.

Mozenrath looked at her with a mildly incredulous expression. "Do I look like the kind of man who'd invite peasants to meddle in his affairs?"

She almost cringed at the layered meaning in his words, but answered him evenly. "Fine. Hold to your end of the deal then. Heal my father, right now."

"I hope you know that within the walls of my Citadel, I am the only one who issues orders," he said, his voice still light though she knew he was being serious this time.

He stood from the table and gestured with his hand toward the darkness beside them. The translucent outline of her father's comatose form appeared, a mere image of his real body. She rose to her feet as well and looked down at his frozen, blank face, faintly outlined in blue-green magic. Mozenrath pointed his gauntleted hand downward, and a golden stream of healing magic began to pour from the glove toward her father's chest.

Upon contact with his motionless form, the magic spread to cover his entire body, and the gold quickly faded into invisibility. Jasmine watched in awe as tendrils of black smoke began to rise from his face, torso, limbs, every place the magic touched.

Then he stirred and began to breathe once more, the color returning to his pallid face. She let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and looked at Mozenrath with open gratitude. But she stopped short of thanking him as he made a remark dripping with his trademark contempt.

"And so continues the reign of one imbecile before the next one can succeed him."

She narrowed her eyes at him as the image of her father disappeared. "How do I know that was really my father and you weren't faking me out?"

"I'm offended, Princess; I thought we went over the whole 'trust' thing days ago."

"And I established that I'd only trust you to act with destructive intentions toward me and my kingdom. Give me proof that you really healed him."

She knew she was pushing it. There was no reason for him to comply with her demand; he could just take her to the Citadel now. But perhaps out of pity or amusement, he conjured an image of the room where her father lay on an expansive bed, surrounded by anxious court physicians. Eden hovered nearby, staring in disbelieving relief that the sultan was breathing again and seemingly recovered of his own accord.

"Satisfied?" he said in slight petulance.

It was good enough for her. It would have taken too much effort to design a false scene of such detail. She nodded, and the grave reality of what she was getting herself into hit her like a solid wall. There was nothing left between her and indefinite imprisonment in the Land of the Black Sand.

She could not conceal all of her fear as she met his cool gaze, but she knew that he had always been able to see it with utter clarity whether she tried to conceal it or not. And what terrified her all the more was the unanswered question of whether he knew what she had seen in the Mirror. Whether he knew that her last vision was of a sinister ceremony that profaned the meaning of matrimony in every way, and that she had died by his hand in the same way Raniye had.

But as he stretched out his gloved hand for her to take, she clung to the desperate, irrational hope that there was still an inkling of good in his heart. That the gauntlet and his own addiction to power had not stripped away everything that was good in him. The memory of his first love still remained, along with the memory of her sacrifice. Perhaps that was enough to kindle the infinitesimal hope for his redemption. His mother's spirit had said that it was never too late for anyone to turn back on the road of damnation. His flat rejection of her words did nothing to disprove their truth.

And she clung to the image of his unreadable expression as he'd handed her the cure to another type of evil poison. Alongside it was the gentle voice of the deceased Chyrilian princess from a rare ethereal scene in the Mirror.

_Be strong, Princess…_

She took his hand, feeling the firm grip of leather around her fingers, and fought not to recoil from the fleshless bones beneath the fabric. His callous smile tightened, and he drew her toward him with measured force.

In the next moment they entered a new mode of darkness, a dimly lit room with no visible source of light. She did not recognize it from any of the scenes in the Mirror. It seemed to be a small library of sorts, as the walls were lined with bookshelves and cabinets. She stepped hesitantly backward on solid ground, breaking contact with his hand, and turned to see a neatly made bed in the corner. Had he been prepared for her arrival the whole time?

Sudden exhaustion sank into her limbs as she realized she had just left the realm of dreams to enter the waking world once again. She took another step backward to balance herself but failed, feeling air rush rapidly by as she fell.

There was no jarring impact against stone, only the blessed softness of sleep. At last she ceased her struggles to keep awake and finally surrendered to her body's overwhelming need to rest.

This time, the last thing she felt before she faded into oblivion was the unearthly touch of cold leather against her cheek.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

She awakened slowly, stretching her limbs, and immediately felt a wave of dizziness wash through her. It was soon followed by a sharp pang in her stomach. She could not remember the last time she had had any food or drink. Her throat was terribly dry, and her lower lip cracked and began to bleed as she yawned.

She opened her eyes groggily and noticed that her surroundings were still dark. Turning on her side, she reached over to grope for the lamp on her vanity.

Her hand connected with a cold stone wall.

She jerked back in shock and sudden remembrance of where she was. It all came flooding back in the span of a second. She had returned from the Mirror, Mozenrath had healed her father, and she was now his willing prisoner. And she had just spent her first night in the Land of the Black Sand, in the lair of her enemy.

She tensed immediately and sat up, trying to scope out the room. Squinting, she noticed the bookshelves and cabinets once again, and the drawing table in one corner. There was a plain wooden door on the right wall, and a smaller door nearer to the bed.

She looked down and paused in a brief moment of confusion. Instead of the teal green outfit she had been wearing the day before, she was clad in her lavender nightclothes from the first week of the challenge.

She bristled, folding her arms self-consciously though it was too late for embarrassment now. He had the audacity to…! She shuddered in indignant, futile rage at the thought that she had been at his mercy for however long she had been asleep. And she had no idea what else he might have done besides change her attire.

Then she had to withdraw that thought as she noticed the skin of her right palm was smooth and unbroken once again, the ink smears gone. All that remained of the nasty cut from the shard of glass was a faint scar.

She leaned back against the headboard of the bed, closing her eyes and trying for the umpteenth time to puzzle out this frustrating man. It seemed that he dealt out cruelty with one hand while the other offered elusive kindness. Even after she had witnessed so much of his life, she still didn't understand him.

That was all the more reason to be on guard now that she was in the heart of his territory. She was here to defeat him, and she couldn't afford to let what she felt for him block her judgment.

Her thoughts were suddenly drawn back to the mysterious sage who had appeared on her balcony. As in all their previous encounters, his purpose had been frustratingly vague, though he had helped her realize how to save her father. His exposition on love seemed jarringly out of place, but she knew better than to ignore it. Fashir never interfered in their lives without reason, though she had yet to understand what it was this time. If it hadn't been to save her father, then it must have been to help her recover from the Mirror or perhaps even to aid her in solving Mozenrath's challenge.

Her unease only grew with the thought of the latter possibility. Was Fashir involved in this challenge at all? She had been on the verge of breaking down, praying desperately for hope and strength, when he had appeared to her. Was he fully aware of the conflict between her and Mozenrath? Was he on her side? If he was, then what use was it to speak in such vague riddles?

She had often questioned whether Mozenrath actually cared for her. But she had never considered the thought that his twisted attraction to her might actually be a part of his plan. After the horrific final scene in the Mirror and Fashir's mysterious message, however, she wondered if his plan was to entrap her in the same warped affection he felt toward her. To lead her so far into obsession that she would fall in love with him. But how was her reluctant love of any use to him in gaining power?

She tried to recall Fashir's exact words. He had said that love was ever triumphant, that evil and hate could not win against it. It was something she already knew; her continued love for Aladdin in spite of her massive loss of memories was a testament to that. But what was her love supposed to do for an evil sorcerer? Change him into a good man? She almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

She had to revise her perception of love, then. Love could not conquer everything. The hate and bitterness ingrained deep within him since childhood along with the evil that had accumulated like a permanent disease through his adolescent years into adulthood—they had shaped him into the man he was today, a man who felt no remorse when he killed the innocent, desecrated the dead, and sought to take over the Seven Deserts by force. In the face of all that, how could the misguided affection of a young woman do anything to change him? If the selfless love of the Chryilian princess hadn't been enough to turn him away from his dark path, then who was she to think she could? And who was to say he even wanted to change? It was utterly absurd to think he—

She paused as a horrifying thought occurred to her. What if the ghastly wedding scene had been more than just the Mirror's last attempt to scare her out of her sanity? What if it were a shadow of what was to come? Could the Mirror show the future as well as the past?

Now that she loved him, would he use that love to kill her somehow, as a sacrifice?

Her heart lurched in alarm. She would not put it past him to kill her even if he cared for her in some fashion. After all, he had driven a knife without hesitation through a woman he had cared about once before, prior to the gauntlet's debilitating influence on him. The man he was now would feel even less remorse.

She truly had walked into a lion's den. If he planned to sacrifice her, there was nothing she could do to escape.

At the same time, she wondered why he hadn't done it yet. He knew about her obsession with him. With his frightening perceptiveness, he probably knew the nuanced difference between obsession and love as well, and may have sensed the change in her the night before despite all her efforts to suppress it. What was he waiting for? Why was she still alive and well-rested, and why had he even healed her hand?

She had come to a dead end once again in her reasoning. Sighing, she tilted her head back and ran her hands roughly through the tangles of her hair, noticing that the bands had been removed.

She opened her eyes then, wondering where she could actually find food to eat in this gloomy place, and promptly shrieked as she found the sorcerer sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

"Good evening, Princess."

She lashed out on delayed instinct, her nails almost connecting with his face before he stopped her with one hand. He shook his head in light rebuke.

"I may have tried to kill you a bunch of times, but I have never marred your face. Don't I deserve the same courtesy?"

"You disgust me," she seethed, folding her arms once again.

Glancing at the lavender strap of her top, he caught her meaning and responded in utter nonchalance. "Please, a simple change in attire does not require contact; it is one of the most elementary spells a sorcerer can learn."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're missing the point. I don't trust you."

He laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, Princess."

Her blood was starting to boil again. It seemed that her supposed love for him did nothing to dampen the heated annoyance she always felt during their conversations. But gratefully, she found that the natural impulse to fight back against his insufferable arrogance took the edge off her fear of him.

"Well, my little prisoner, of what use might you be to me?" he said, shifting his weight minutely so he could lean closer to her. As she drew away and the back of her skull brushed the wall, she suddenly felt like a mouse trapped by a cat that was too lazy to pounce. Her eyes were helplessly drawn to his intent gaze; while it never wandered from her face, it somehow felt like he was appraising every visible inch of her.

"I have fifteen days left. I'll solve your challenge while I'm here," she asserted, though she felt little conviction.

"Bold words for someone who just surrendered herself unconditionally and indefinitely as a captive."

Narrowing her eyes, she stopped cringing away from him and dared to lean forward in what she hoped was a self-assured stance. "I didn't surrender, Mozenrath. This is just the beginning."

The beginning of exactly what, she did not want to consider. The artful threats that frequently passed between them had taken on a frighteningly intimate tone as of late, and she could not afford to think on them too long.

Unfortunately for her, he continued the undertones without pause.

"On the contrary, Princess. We're at the midpoint now."

Her gaze did not falter as she wrenched the conversation out of that dangerous territory.

"I'm going to win this game of yours. And I'll laugh when I discover just how pathetic the actual answer is."

He merely shrugged, an unexpected deflection of her open challenge. "We all need to lie to ourselves sometimes. By all means, please continue. It's certainly been an amusing ride thus far."

Before she could respond, he stood from the bed abruptly, his gaze cold and distant.

"You probably haven't realized that you slept almost an entire day. If you don't want to starve, you should get dressed," he motioned briefly at the wardrobe near the bed, "and join me for dinner. You may take that smaller door to clean yourself up. The other one will take you directly to the dining room."

He saw her accusing look of continued distrust and rolled his eyes. "Once again, don't flatter yourself, Princess."

With that, he disappeared from the room, leaving her alone in her comfortable prison cell. She glanced at the wardrobe, wondering what kind of clothes were inside; where did Mozenrath even obtain female clothing? She froze as she thought of the two girls who had once shared the Citadel with him. He wouldn't have given her their clothes, would he?

She stood, shivering slightly from leaving the warmth of the bed, and opened the wardrobe doors with cautious hands.

She blinked in surprise at the shelves of neatly folded clothing and a side compartment of hanging dresses. Upon first glance, the selection of colors and fabrics seemed to match her preferences perfectly. Drawing out one of the folded sets of pants, she examined the fabric and noted it was of the same fine quality used by the royal tailors in Agrabah. She held the rose-colored pants against her body, scrutinizing their fit, and found that they were the perfect length. She again had to pause and wonder just how Mozenrath had managed to plan all this out so meticulously. Had he been expecting her? Or was this some kind of magical wardrobe that could suit the wearer's tastes?

There were plenty of bigger concerns at the moment; she brushed aside her questions and accepted that he either knew her tastes disturbingly well or had a magic wardrobe that she had half a mind to take back to Agrabah with her—if she could go back to Agrabah anytime soon.

She set the pants back on the shelf and thought for a moment. Mozenrath would certainly continue to treat her in his typical condescending manner as if she were a helpless princess, but she didn't have to dress like one. That meant no childish colors or billowing pants. She was also sick of wearing lavender, which he seemed to favor on her for some reason. Her hands sought out the long wine-colored dress hanging on the side. Its dark shade and modest cut gave it an air of self-possession along with an indefinable hint of maturity.

In the small side room, she cleaned herself up decently and ran a comb through her hair enough times to get the tangles out. She dressed quickly and efficiently, not allowing herself to wonder if he was indeed watching.

She opened the door then, and just as he had said, it led directly into the dining room. She took her first step into the eerily familiar place with forced poise, remembering the last time she had been here. Glancing up, she saw the dark chandelier still hung overhead, casting its strange, dim light over the vast room.

Mozenrath stood at the head of the table, behind the tallest chair that had once belonged to his master. His gloved hand rested on its high back, and a small smile touched his lips as he watched her approach. Again, his eyes never left her face, but she knew that they were taking in all of her, how she appeared in this new dark shade and form. Neither of them spoke until she reached the chair beside him.

He motioned with his hand and her chair slid quietly backward. She hesitated at the chill of memory that ran through her, realizing that this seat had once belonged to another princess. His eyes were still on her as she stared at the empty chair, unable to move for a second in a haunting premonition of her own future in this dark, forbidding Citadel. But she shook off those tendrils of fear and sat down, reminding herself that the past was not the present, no matter how similar they seemed. The chair automatically slid back toward the table where dishes of food had already been laid out.

Her doubts quickly vanished under pangs of extreme hunger as she looked down at the wide assortment of food on her plate. But she paused before reaching for it, to the loud protests of her stomach, and gave him a critical look.

"Your cooks aren't Mamluks, are they?"

A bottle of wine appeared in his hand, and he began to pour her a glass.

"Conjuring food is just as elementary as arranging clothing," he said nonchalantly. "Like anyone else, I prefer my meals to be somewhat appetizing and free of embalming powder."

She took him at his word and began to eat ravenously. Perhaps it ruined the dignified aura she had been aiming for, but when near starvation, one had to make compromises.

He eyed her with amusement, eating about half as fast and pausing every so often to swirl his glass of wine absently. He at least had the courtesy not to engage her in conversation as she replenished her body with desperately needed energy. She was so hungry that the strict law forbidding unmarried women from drinking alcohol completely slipped her mind. The liquid was halfway down her throat before she realized it was too dark and bitter to be water.

She coughed and choked it down, miraculously managing not to spit it all over herself. It burned down her throat and started a slow dizzying fire in her stomach, a completely alien feeling. She glared at him accusingly as he chuckled.

"I had hoped your first taste of wine would be a bit more of a refined experience," he said, taking a sip from his own glass.

She shoved her glass toward him, irritated that he hadn't stopped her.

"Would changing wine into water also count as an elementary spell?" she said petulantly.

He sighed and touched the glass with his gloved hand. The dark color of the liquid faded into clear, colorless water. "That was one of my finest bottles, Princess. You are certainly quite demanding for a prisoner."

"Not wanting a forbidden drink or spare Mamluk parts in my food is hardly demanding."

He shook his head and smiled, not replying this time. She realized then that he chose his battles carefully, not wasting his breath on arguing every point, while she tended to return everything he said with a snide remark. It made her feel immature and childish, and she vowed to be more careful with her words.

"So," she said after she finished most of her plate, "who poisoned my father if it wasn't you?"

"You already asked that and I already answered," Mozenrath said. "I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

He gave a short laugh. "I suppose I should be flattered that you think I'm omniscient. Sadly, I must admit that I have not yet reached that particular goal of mine."

"So my father was just conveniently poisoned in the middle of these thirty days, and you just happened to be the only person capable of healing him."

"And how did you know I was capable of healing him in the first place?"

She paused, cursing herself inwardly for being unprepared. It was obvious by the subtle hardening of his gaze that he was set on questioning her about the Mirror now. She decided to stop dancing around the subject and face it openly.

"It was an educated guess, actually," she admitted. "I wasn't sure if you could still use that power after wearing the gauntlet for so long."

"And it conveniently turned out that I can. Might I ask what other educated guesses you have at the moment?"

"That you've planned everything all the way up to now," she said. It was a bit of a bluff, an unexpected piece of flattery that might throw him off guard.

He smiled seamlessly. "Is that what you'd like to believe? It surely would lighten the burden on your shoulders, wouldn't it."

"No, you're not omnipotent or omniscient, just as you said. But…you didn't stop me from going in once you knew I would."

He leaned back in his chair and draped his gloved arm over the armrest. "Why would I have stopped you?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I was able to witness the entire span of your life," she said, also leaning back and regarding him coolly. "I figured you weren't the type who'd let his enemies in on all his darkest secrets."

"If any of those 'secrets' were actually of use to an enemy, perhaps I might care. But seeing that you still have not solved my challenge…" He trailed off and shrugged. "No harm done. You, on the other hand…I imagine it gave you quite a headache, did it not?"

She did not appreciate the pun, but showed no reaction to the light taunt.

This was another unexpected twist; he was perfectly calm, not seeming to care at all that she had entered the Mirror. But she was still on her toes, not sure if this was all an act to mislead her. She had expected him to be either angry or smug. Angry if he had not meant for her to see the depths of his past but for some reason hadn't been able to stop her in time. Smug if he had intended for her to enter it all along as part of some grand scheme to break her down or gain control over her. But this aloof indifference was unnerving; she didn't know what to think or what to ask.

Perhaps that was his purpose.

"Why aren't you dead by now?" she asked bluntly. "Last time you tried switching bodies with Aladdin, you were on the brink of death because of the gauntlet."

"It seems you never paid attention in etiquette training, either. Don't you know that it's rude to ask people a question like that?" he said with a smirk. She did not return it. The mask of amusement faded. "I don't die easily."

"I suppose not. You only kill easily," she said, remembering the feel of a cold blade sliding between her ribs. He must have noticed the slight grimace on her face at the unpleasant memory.

"Did you see something that disturbed you?" he asked evenly. But the gleam in his eyes revealed that he was indeed interested in what she had experienced in the Mirror. It occurred to her then that he did not know the exact details of what she had seen.

"Maybe not so much disturbed as disappointed," she said. She decided to go out on a limb and actually say what she felt. "You could have been…" She stopped short of saying 'good.' "You could have been a very different man."

His smile was cruel and humorless. "Save your pity for someone who wants it, Princess. I am not what I could have been, nor do I have any wish to be."

"Why?" she persisted. "Why do you even want power anymore when you have so much already, and when it's already taken so much from you?"

"After all you've seen, you still don't know?" He shook his head in disdain. "And you still think you have a chance at winning this game?"

"Let's stop with the insults for just one minute," she said, not caring how hypocritical she sounded. "The whole paradigm you've set up just doesn't make any sense. You have a foolproof plan to take over everything, but instead of carrying it out right away, you drag it on until the end of thirty days while giving me, of all people, the chance to foil it by simply figuring out what it is. And your supposed reason is because you'd be bored if no one tried to stop you. Frankly speaking, this is the most idiotic plot you've come up with so far. Call me a fool for falling for the bait and running with it for fifteen days and a lifetime in a magic mirror, but I think it's time I called your bluff. You need me to accomplish some kind of plan, I'm sure of that. Why don't you just tell me what it is?"

There was an infinitesimal change in his gaze, and she almost didn't believe it. He was actually regarding her with a measure of respect.

"So. You've finally tired of hitting your head repeatedly against the wall," he said. "And instead of passing out, you now have the sense to look up."

She bore his insults with testy patience, not replying only because she knew he spoke the truth. She had been fully roped in by his scheme, devoting all her energy and health and even her heart to him in the span of fifteen days. He must have known it would have played out this way, that it'd take her about half the allotted time to fall into helpless obsession with him through her own stubborn, short-sighted nature, and that for the rest of the time she'd actually begin to think about the fundamental mechanics and glaring inconsistencies in the presentation of his challenge. He knew her too well. The simple rules of the game—the worrisome time limit, the prohibition against telling anyone else, even the borderless dream world as their negotiation ground—had all been selected carefully with the aim of driving her into obsession as quickly as possible. It had worked flawlessly. She had even given up all her memories of Aladdin in the process, an unexpected bonus for the sorcerer. It suddenly struck her that perhaps he'd allowed her into the Mirror precisely because he knew of the cost it would exact from her.

And now that she had finally looked beyond his impossible claim of power, it seemed that his purpose was simply to save his own life…and to prevent Mirage from taking over his domain. But how she fit into all of it was still frustratingly unclear.

"Mozenrath," she said in seriousness. "Can you just tell me how I can help you?"

She didn't have time to gauge his reaction before the dark chandelier above them flashed bright blue. Both of them looked up immediately, and she noticed that the individual crystals of the chandelier appeared very similar to the ones spread throughout the dead town outside the Citadel.

She didn't have to question who the intruders were. Aladdin was coming for her without any regard for stealth, setting off the crystals by bringing Genie and Carpet. She had been right; Mozenrath was one of their prime suspects for kidnapping her.

She gave the sorcerer a pleading look, dropping her pride for Aladdin's sake. "Don't hurt him."

Instead of responding with a snide comment, he merely took her hand and smirked; in the next second she was back in the bedroom he had given her. It took her a second to rebalance herself from the unexpected teleportation spell, and she ran to the door only to find it locked.

_Now, now, Princess, be a good little prisoner and stay put. Can't have your street rat finding out whom you've chosen to shack up with, hm?_

The mercurial change in his manner had the desired effect of irritating and embarrassing her at the same time. Of course she couldn't be seen. Not yet, at least. Her heart twisted in shame and unease as she realized how worried Aladdin must be for her, and how she had hardly thought about him at all since she had arrived in the Citadel. It must have been the loss of her memories; if she still remembered the richness of their history together, she probably wouldn't have even considered offering to be Mozenrath's prisoner in the first place. Although her motives were anything but selfish or adulterous, it was still a blatant breach in propriety and trust. She had to figure out Mozenrath's true intentions and get out of this place as soon as possible. Aladdin didn't deserve to be kept on edge like this, scouring the Seven Deserts for her. Neither did any of their friends who were with him.

A viewing window opened in the air beside the bed, allowing her to watch the coming encounter between the sorcerer and her fiancé. She sat back against the wall, drawing the blanket over her lower body, and tried to relax in spite of her guilt.

Mozenrath was seated on his dreary throne in the vast, central hall of the Citadel, waiting calmly with his chin propped on one hand. He appeared bored and arrogant as ever, his features perfectly schooled for Aladdin's arrival.

Sure enough, a streak of light blue and a poof of magic announced Aladdin's arrival. Genie had transported himself in first, perhaps to guard against any traps Mozenrath might have prepared for them. Carpet soon zoomed by her field of vision, and the tense, well-toned shoulders of the man crouched upon it were unmistakable.

He slid off the magic carpet and came to stand directly before Mozenrath, flanked by Genie. Mozenrath had not moved at all, merely watching him with uninspired boredom.

"Long time no see, Aladdin. To what might I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You know what we're here for, Mozenrath," Aladdin said, his voice laden with distrust. She could hear the weariness in his accusing words; he probably hadn't slept since the night before when he had been frantically searching for an antidote to save her father. Again she felt the dull ache in her heart reminding her that she was not the only one suffering the cost of this game.

"Suffice it to say that I don't," Mozenrath said curtly. "How many of my Mamluks do I have to repair now thanks to your barging in for no reason?"

"I don't have time to play around. Where is she?"

Mozenrath smiled slyly, seemingly giving away the fact that he actually did have the princess as his prisoner. But it was all a ruse. Of course he'd react in such an arrogant manner, just to get on Aladdin's nerves.

"Oh, do we have a missing princess on our hands?" he said innocently. "I take it she didn't promise to write before she left."

"It's not funny," Aladdin said, bristling with barely contained anger. "I knew she'd be here. What do you want with her, Mozenrath? Let her go right now!"

"Honestly Aladdin, I don't have her," the sorcerer responded, his tone now serious. "I suggest you take your search elsewhere; I imagine you have an ample waiting list of enemies to accuse of stealing your precious princess."

"Since when have you ever told the truth?" Genie scoffed, folding his arms in an indignant pose. His face suddenly morphed into that of a young boy with black hair and a feathered hat, and his nose began to grow alarmingly long. "Reliable, old-fashioned lie detector. I think our pal Moze needs to get one of these implanted, huh, Al?"

Aladdin ignored his friend, continuing to stare at the sorcerer as if trying to read his pleasantly blank expression.

"I don't believe you. I know you have her."

Mozenrath simply laughed. "Is that what you've convinced yourself about everyone you suspect of kidnapping her? Simple physics dictates that your dear princess can only be in one place at one time, street rat. But that's right, you don't know what physics is, do you?"

Aladdin growled and stalked forward, coming to stand mere inches before Mozenrath's smug face. "I'm warning you one last time, Mozenrath. Let her go."

"Ah, desperate times call for empty threats," the sorcerer said flippantly. Jasmine had to hand it to him; his act so far was flawless. He was managing to act as conniving and untrustworthy as usual while working steadily toward the convincing conclusion that he didn't have her.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll take me seriously," Aladdin said dangerously. "I don't know what you want with her, but I'm taking her back right now. If I need to beat you again, I will."

"Well, you've certainly brought enough firepower," Mozenrath said dryly as he eyed Genie, who had transformed into a row of stern-faced, silent figures in crisp black attire and dark glasses, carrying sleek black projectile weapons in their hands.

"You're going to help us, Mr. Anderson, whether you like it or not," the first Genie said in a cool monotone, his mouth set in a firm line.

Mozenrath ignored the strange display and turned his attention toward Aladdin once again. "I thought one of the rules in the hero codebook was not to attack without provocation?"

"The provocation is you have Jasmine," Aladdin said tensely, not backing down from his threatening stance. If Mozenrath was discomforted or annoyed by the street rat's proximity, he didn't show it.

"And I've already told you that I don't," he replied. She could see the slight gleam of his teeth as he smiled. "But I suppose it's about time you broke out of your shining hero mold and did something more suited to my tendencies."

His statement had the desired effect of making Aladdin back off. The very thought of sinking to Mozenrath's level sickened him.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he said warily, less certain than before.

Mozenrath rolled his eyes. "I usually only narrate my motives and methods when I'm in the process of carrying them out, but I guess I'll make an exception this time, since your concern for your princess so touches my heart. First, the kidnap-the-princess routine is way overdone. You should know that I don't subscribe to such vulgar trends. Second, if I really did have her, wouldn't I be using her to take over Agrabah by now?"

She could see Aladdin mulling over the sorcerer's reasoning carefully and coming to the grudging acknowledgement that it was sound.

Mozenrath smirked as he added in afterthought, "And despite what your plebeian opinion may be, she's not _that _attractive. At least, not attractive enough to warrant a kidnapping for…well, you know."

She missed Aladdin's reaction to that parting shot only because she was bristling with anger herself. He had the nerve…! She knew he had only said that because she was watching. The blatant insult coupled with the innuendo was too much for her to take sitting down. When she saw him next, she'd be sure to let him know just how attractive she thought he was…with a black eye.

Aladdin seemed to be on the brink of deciding that that brazen insult was enough provocation for him to start pummeling the sorcerer. But his code of honor and transparent nature held fast. Mozenrath's reasoning was convincing enough. He slowly backed away from the sorcerer, his distrustful eyes never leaving the latter's face but acknowledging that he had no evidence for his accusation.

She watched Aladdin and their friends leave with a sinking heart, wishing she could assure them that she was all right. It pained her to see him so anxious; she had been gone hardly a day, and Aladdin was already starting to wear down from lack of rest. She only hoped that her absence wasn't affecting the kingdom too much, as her father was now healthy and once again held the reins of authority. A sixteen day disappearance wouldn't be enough to cause any serious problems.

The last image she saw through the window was of Aladdin's slumped form, utterly exhausted as he flew out of the Citadel. Genie laid one hand on his friend's tired back in a reassuring manner.

"Don't worry, Al. We'll find her, no doubt about it. Or, knowing Jas, she'll fight her way back to Agrabah without our help!"

Aladdin didn't even smile at the encouragement, laying his head against the carpet and closing his eyes in weariness. "I couldn't save the sultan this time, Genie. What if I can't save her either?"

She didn't hear Genie's reply as the window faded. Her hands fisted uselessly into the blanket covering her legs. Aladdin was hurting because of her. Because of her rash decision to come to the Citadel and try to solve Mozenrath's challenge on her own. Why had it taken her this long to figure out that she shouldn't have taken the sorcerer's threat so literally? Why hadn't she just told Aladdin about the challenge so they could work to defeat Mozenrath together? They must have beaten him countless times in the past, no matter how invincible he seemed to be. She was just too blind and stupid and stubborn. And because of her foolishness, Aladdin was now in pain.

No, she corrected. It was because of Mozenrath. He had started it all by approaching her with this maddeningly vague challenge. He was the one who'd planned it all to happen this way, to drive her away from Aladdin and toward him instead, a dark sorcerer who wouldn't mind killing her if it would grant him more power.

She opened her eyes and glared at him as he appeared in her room, right in front of her where the viewing window had been. He had the nerve to smirk.

"I didn't hurt him too badly, did I?"

That did it. She lunged forward and caught him in the jaw with her right fist. He flinched just in time to avoid getting the black eye she had sworn she'd give him. His head jerked to the side upon the impact of her strike, eyes widening in shock at the fact she'd actually managed to hit him this time.

He recovered quickly and blocked her other fist with his gloved hand, moving swiftly to press her back against the edge of the bed, cutting off the forward momentum of her legs with his own. He wrenched her left wrist sideways painfully, eliciting a gasp of pain, but she gritted her teeth and kicked upward with her right knee, aiming for his groin. He stopped her with one firm hand on her thigh, forcefully pushing her leg down before bringing both her arms above her head and pinning her flat on her back across the bed.

His irreverently suggestive smirk lasted only a second before she twisted in his grasp and yanked the gauntlet off his hand, throwing it backward into a corner of the bed in a reckless, haphazard move. And then it was her turn to pause in disgust as her hand encountered solid, fleshless bone. In that brief moment, he spoke a single foreign word, and she suddenly could not move at all.

Her arms lay immobile above her head, held there gently by his left hand. He smiled in self-satisfaction as he moved his right hand slowly down to her face, fully revealing the gruesome sight of bleached bones that clicked softly with each movement of his fingers.

She was breathing hard, the rise and fall of her chest causing the modest neckline of the dark wine dress to dip dangerously low. As always, however, his gaze did not leave her face, seemingly more enticed by the sight of her fear than of any physical part of her.

She lay speechless and paralyzed by more than just the force of his spell. She was riveted by the smooth intensity of his gaze, how his eyes bored into hers with the confidence of a man who knew he had won, who knew he had control not only over her life, but over her heart as well.

"You're the first person who's ever wrested the gauntlet from me without using magic," he murmured. She only half-heard his words as he traced her jaw with his skeletal hand, sending shivers of fearful anticipation down her spine. He touched one fleshless finger to her lower lip and brought it away with a faint stain of blood on its bleached white tip. In the midst of the short-lived fight, the parched skin had split open again. She watched in helpless fascination as he brought it to his own lips and tasted her blood with a crooked smile, slipping his tongue over the tip of the bone.

The insuppressible wave of desire that was spreading from between her legs to the rest of her body was utterly bewildering and terrifying. She could not fight it, could not break free of his cruelly tender hold on her, and worst of all, in her heart of hearts she did not want to.

She swallowed nervously as he leaned down, his face drawing closer to hers inch by torturous inch. Her back arched in reaction to his warm breath on her skin, close enough to stimulate every hair on her neck. She shut her eyes, blocking out the sight of his dark smile appraising her, caught in a maddening mix of desire and fearful memory of the last time she had been cornered like this.

His immobilizing spell broke unexpectedly, allowing her free movement once again. A second later, she raised her face to meet his lips, tasting him for the first real time. Her head swam in dizzying pleasure and confusion, not fully realizing that she had actually initiated the kiss. It was her second taste of wine, the bittersweet, toxic flavor entering her mouth through his tongue which roamed between her lips, wetting the dry, cracked skin and the bleeding cut, covering over the sting of pain with gentle but firm caresses. The back of her skull met the bed once again as she yielded to his ministrations without struggle or complaint, quickly losing herself in the feel and taste of him. His hands threaded through her long, unbound hair, tugging her head back slightly as his lips traveled along her jawline to her throat. The weight of his body dragged her downward slowly, nearer to the edge of the bed. With one knee he nudged the folds of her dress higher until his left hand could reach underneath the fabric, and she felt his palm slide slowly up her leg. It stopped beneath her hip and caressed the line above her thigh. She tensed like a bow, and he kissed the side of her neck soothingly as if persuading her to relax.

Her mind began to catch up with her in a desperate race, warning her that she had already allowed this to go too far, that if she did not stop him now, there would be no chance of stopping him ever again. She was beyond fear; she was plainly petrified. This was wrong. She could not allow it. She could not…

With the last of her self-control she twisted away from his roving lips on her throat and closed her legs tightly. The unsatisfied demon inside her protested with a renewed flame of desire as she unwittingly trapped his hand against her. But a second later the pressure was gone, and she was free to breathe without the weight of his body upon her.

She looked up into his eyes, and her heart nearly stopped at what she saw there. There was undeniable heat mixed with the perpetual cold, a spark of desire and something else more elusive in those midnight depths. And she saw understanding there, the knowledge that he would break her irreparably if he pushed on, even if her body desired him more than anything. Even if she was his prisoner and had been chained to him ever since she had begun on this dark road of obsession.

He stepped back from her and broke off all contact, to her overwhelming relief and frustration. She crushed the voice of rebellious lust in her, willing herself to think clearly, to see him for who he was, as an enemy first and foremost, and then as the man she had unwillingly, helplessly, wrongly come to love.

The mask of cold detachment slid seamlessly back over his features, establishing the impasse between them once more.

"Took you less than a day to crack," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cruel smile. "Good thing your street rat didn't arrive any later, hm?"

She flushed in deep embarrassment and shame at the merciless truth of his words. There was nothing she could say to defend herself, and it was time to stop faulting him alone. She had let herself fall too quickly, too deeply, and now she was afraid it was far too late to turn back.

Without another word he raised his hand and summoned the discarded gauntlet back to him. It slid over the bones of his right hand with well-worn ease, and he removed himself from the room, leaving her alone on her disheveled bed, head bowed in incurable guilt and helpless uncertainty.

***

15.

***


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

There was a tray of food and water at her bedside when she awoke in the morning. She tiredly sat up and reached for the glass, then promptly screamed and scrambled back against the wall.

Two undead servants stood quietly several feet away from her, watching her blankly with sallow, gaunt faces. She relaxed minutely at the knowledge he hadn't sent them to hurt her. Just as a sick joke, his way of saying good morning.

Another glance at the tray made her appetite invert into nausea. Maybe he didn't have Mamluks cook for him, but having them carry food around wasn't any better.

She shut her eyes and twisted her blanket in her hands. She had hardly been awake for one minute, and she was already annoyed at him.

"Get out," she ordered. The Mamluks did not move. She frowned. "Go wait outside the door, at least. I don't want you in here."

They began to shuffle obediently toward the door, shriveled limbs dragging across the stone tiles. A finger fell to the floor behind one of them, but neither Mamluk seemed to notice. She shuddered, curling her lip in disgust. She would never get used to them.

She eyed the tray again, still feeling no desire for food, but her throat was parched enough to demand that she take the water. She inspected it carefully, making sure there were no suspicious specks in the glass before downing it in a few gulps.

She stood from the bed and approached the wardrobe, wondering what she was supposed to do now. Would he give her the freedom to wander about as she wished? Would he even let her near the study where he had concocted his plan?

She paused before she could change out of her clothes, remembering what had happened the night before. Her face flushed at the memory of his lips on her skin, the chilling caress of his skeletal hand, the way he'd been ready to take her completely without ceremony or concern for propriety.

Or her engagement to another man.

She willed her thumping heart to cease its futile, expectant race, clutching the black fabric of the outfit she had chosen tightly in her hands. She still loved Aladdin, as she had confirmed in the Mirror even after the loss of her memories, but she was too close to Mozenrath now to sort out exactly how she felt toward both men. The sorcerer would be her center of gravity for the next fifteen days. It was unavoidable. But she had to make sure that any further intimate encounters were avoided long before they could start.

She changed quickly into a black sleeveless bodice and pants that flowed loosely down to her ankles. There was a small box of hair bands beside the folded clothes; she drew out several and tied her hair back in its customary fashion. She then turned her gaze toward the shelves, intrigued by the fact he had placed her in a room with so many books. It reminded her of Thanon's study.

She stood still for a moment. The historian was dead, poisoned by the same drink that had been meant to kill her father. He had been a good man, better than most of the servants in the royal court. Unlike so many others with highly esteemed posts, he had cared for his duty, not his power, and routinely stepped beyond his duty to help the poor and enslaved. And he had almost saved a young boy named Morathai.

But that boy was now a man, and his name had changed long ago. He claimed innocence and ignorance in the murder of Thanon and the assassination attempt on her father. She didn't know whether to believe him.

She walked to the end of the shelf, closing her eyes as she imagined the vision the sultana of Helinth had briefly shown her son. A vision of a drastically different life not only for him but for her as well, and all the citizens of Agrabah. If he had grown up in the palace and become a good, upright man, she imagined he would have gained her love quite naturally. She recalled the last scene the sultana had shown him—they had been in the royal gardens together, strolling side by side as she and Aladdin had no doubt done many times. And he had smiled at her without coldness or veiled cruelty, with no trace of a mask. She felt a dull ache at the thought that she would never see him like that in real life.

It was no use thinking about what could have been, as regret was as merciless as evil. Opening her eyes, she moved on from the bookshelf and toward the door. She half-expected him to be outside in the dining room, waiting for her.

But before she reached it, something on the drawing table caught her eye. There was a single book resting on top of it, the cover plain and unmarked. She picked it up without hesitation; he had obviously meant for her to see it.

The inside was blank as well. She turned the crisp white pages briskly until she reached the center. There was nothing.

Puzzled, she started to close it, but a splotch of ink appeared at the top left corner of one page. It lengthened and flourished gracefully as if written by the hand of a master calligrapher, spelling a single word.

_Compassion._

She held the enchanted book carefully open on the table, gripping only the edge of the paper so she did not smear the ink. The word soon faded and disappeared, leaving no trace on the blank sheet. Then another splotch appeared, on the opposite page this time, and another word formed slowly from an invisible brush.

_Admiration._

It too vanished after several seconds, followed by more words.

_Affection. Devotion. Selflessness. Respect. Sympathy. Forgiveness._

The last word did not fade. She stared at it curiously, its fluid curves imprinted in the center of the right page. What were all of these words supposed to mean?

Another word appeared on the left side of the page and stayed there. _Trust_.

These were all positive words, virtues and feelings she aspired to have toward others.

Were they supposed to describe what she felt toward him?

She did feel most of those things for him, though she was constantly on guard about how much. She almost laughed at the thought of her "affection." It seemed too soft and gentle a word. Lust seemed more accurate, but she realized it was not part of love.

All these words seemed to describe love.

She stared at the two words with a new understanding. They remained while the others had faded because she did not yet trust him, and she had not yet forgiven him.

She drew back from the book warily, questioning the new variable that had been tossed into the plan. He already had her love, but he was not yet using her to save himself. Perhaps she had hit upon the reason. She did not love him enough. Or perhaps her love was not refined or complete. She frowned. What was he expecting her to do, then? She had already given up almost all her memories of her fiancé and even betrayed him last night. She was giving up her kingdom and driving her father to constant worry for half a month.

Before her eyes, the word on the right side of the page began to darken, the slender brushstrokes thickening in a decidedly forceful manner.

_Forgiveness._

She stared at it, puzzled, and scarcely a second later it began to fade back to its original graceful appearance.

The book seemed to have a way of measuring her emotions through the ink on the page. It was rather frightening, but she resisted the urge to shut it.

If this was what he still needed from her, he was certainly not helping her along. He'd given her no reason to trust or forgive him, instead doing the opposite by toying with her. He plainly didn't deserve her love, yet she'd already given him so much of herself. And now this book was telling her she had to give more. She breathed in slowly, attempting to curb her anger before the word on the right side of the page could darken too much.

This was getting her nowhere. If the key to saving his life and getting rid of the specter of his challenge was to trust and forgive him somehow, then she would have to do it. But a worrying thought struck her. If she saved him, how could she be sure he wouldn't turn around and betray her, try to take over Agrabah and hurt everyone she loved as he had done before? He didn't want her pity and he didn't want to change. Why should she even bother to help him, then?

The answer was laid out in front of her. She loved him. Regardless of the fact that he was evil, that he would probably think nothing of continuing his plans for conquest, she still loved him.

She suddenly wondered how she would react if the hourglass ran out of sand and she didn't save him in time. The very fact that she wanted to avoid the thought reinforced the answer.

She stood from the chair, closing the book and walking toward the door. She would accomplish nothing else by sitting here and waiting. But she paused as she realized she did not have to go look for him.

"Mozenrath."

She waited.

"Mozenrath," she said again, more insistently. Another few seconds passed, and the room was still.

It was strange that he did not appear like he always did. Perhaps this was some sort of test. She would venture outside on her own, then, and hopefully be able to find his study.

She opened the door tentatively. The Mamluks were waiting for her as she stepped into a dark hallway instead of the dining room. It seemed to stretch on endlessly in both directions.

"Take me to Mozenrath's study," she ordered.

The Mamluks did not move, continuing to gape at her. She sighed in resignation and decided to walk left. The sound of shuffling footsteps indicated they were following. It was unnerving, but she reminded herself that they were more for her own protection than anything else. Who knew what kind of monsters Mozenrath kept in his Citadel? Perhaps he had actually been serious when he had told Xerxes about the man-eating plants.

It struck her suddenly that she hadn't seen Xerxes at all thus far. From the first night of the challenge until now, he had been conspicuously absent. She supposed it was understandable that Mozenrath had left his familiar out of their midnight conversations, but it was rather unusual that she had not seen him in the Citadel yet.

She tucked that thought away as she paused and stared at the abrupt end of the hallway in front of her. It was not a wall. The stone floor several feet in front of her simply ended at a crisp line, and beyond that there was only darkness. The sight was baffling, and it was obvious there was magic involved. She considered turning back and going the other way, but an idea came to her.

She commanded one of the Mamluks to walk in, and watched as it stepped forward and vanished from sight, seemingly absorbed by the darkness.

She called it back quickly, and it returned within seconds. Perhaps she could walk in safely, but it didn't mean she would be able to navigate.

Taking a calming breath, she stepped forward and immersed herself in shadow. To her surprise, she could see. Her vision was awash in a muddled gray, and she saw that the hall split again in two directions in front of her. Puzzled, she touched the wall, testing whether it was real or illusionary. Her hand met solid stone.

The Mamluks continued to follow her as she headed in one direction, holding the book to one side as a makeshift weapon. It would do her little good if anything did attack her, but at least she had the Mamluks. Glancing back at them, she shuddered. That wasn't much of a comfort.

The hallway stretched on, the texture of the air blurred slightly by the strange murky shade. There were doors along the walls a fair distance away. She approached carefully, wondering which ones she should open.

An eerie sound broke the stifled silence, and she froze. It was a child's song, filled with light breaths and dainty laughter.

She turned, uncertain where it was coming from. The darkness seemed to loom around her, enveloping her in the silken threads of the innocent song that clearly did not belong here. The Mamluks stared blankly ahead, oblivious to the fear slowly seizing her limbs.

The androgynous voice suddenly drew close, the footsteps of a child pattering beside her for a split-second. She jumped back against a wall, holding the book against her chest as a haphazard defense.

The disembodied laugh sent a chill down her spine. It had to be an illusion. Mozenrath wouldn't harm her after all he'd done to keep her safe from injury. But that didn't explain why he'd set this illusion in the first place.

She kept close to the wall and inched forward, the ethereal tune still in her ears. She shut her eyes for a moment and willed it to stop before her fear got the better of her.

The song stopped.

She opened her eyes in surprise, half-expecting the sound to return even louder than before. But there was only silence. She beckoned to the Mamluks, and they followed her toward the first door. It suddenly seemed there were many more doors than before, spread only a foot or so apart from each other on the walls. She looked in the other direction and gasped. The entire hall that stretched behind her was now also full of doors.

"Okay," she said quietly. "This isn't funny anymore, Mozenrath."

She turned again and touched the door that was closest to her. The wood felt real in its texture and solidity. But what lay beyond it? Her arms fell to her sides as she slumped against the wall, trying to think. The book opened in her loose grip, and a streak of black caught her eye. She flipped open to the center page and stared at the steadily darkening words. Still the same two from before.

She bit her lip in frustration. She couldn't help distrusting him. Why was he allowing her to wander in this strange illusion? She no longer felt so assured that he wouldn't harm her. The distinct memory of his cold smile as he had watched her life leak out of the gash in her chest came back to her suddenly. She still couldn't be sure if his ultimate intention was to kill her.

"What are you trying to do?" she muttered, wondering if he was watching her. "Sick bastard."

The insult did not draw him out of the shadows or make any of the doors disappear. She steeled herself and ventured further down the hall. Perhaps she could have the Mamluks open the doors for her. But the thought of the creatures that could possibly be behind those doors made her drop that option. Maybe if she kept walking, she would eventually reach the end of the hallway or at least exit the shadows.

There was only the sound of the Mamluks' shuffling gait as she continued. She passed countless doors, all identical and spread the same distance apart. The hazy darkness stretched on, not veering to the left or right or opening into new pathways. After a minute or so she stopped and looked around once again. Her surroundings looked exactly the same. She wasn't getting anywhere.

She froze once again as the child's voice returned, its feathery lightness adorning the heavy air. Her stomach twisted in fear and dread when she noticed the difference this time. It was crying.

She swallowed nervously, trying to calm her racing heart in the midst of the illusion. Had Mozenrath killed children before? Did he turn children into Mamluks as well? Was he that heartless?

The book almost slipped from her grasp as she shifted it to her other hand, her palms slick with sweat. The ink had soaked through multiple pages by now.

The child's song was broken intermittently with weeping, small hitches of breath laden with sorrow. She leaned back against the wall, innate compassion mixing with terror. The Citadel could be haunted by ghosts. Ghosts of children he'd killed. Or perhaps they were Destane's victims. She latched onto that thought as a last escape, hoping desperately that the man she had fallen in love with was not as much of a monster as his master had been.

She shut her eyes and forced herself to calm down. This was not real. It was an illusion. She repeated the assertion again and again, willing the sinister nightmare to disappear. All of it—the ghostly song, the endless doors, the darkness—she wanted it to stop. She had ended the child's song last time through sheer force of will. She had to believe she could do it again.

Slowly, the heaviness in the air seemed to dissipate and the sounds of weeping faded away. She opened her eyes tentatively, not knowing what sight awaited her, and found that the hallway was no longer as dark. The shadows were receding gradually, and there was only one door remaining, on the wall to her right.

She cautiously approached the door, not knowing if this was some new trick or if she really had succeeded in dispelling the illusions. Reaching out, she felt the rough surface of the wood under her palm. The book in her other hand was still decorated with black ink, but the stain across the pages seemed to be retreating. Forcing her gaze away from it for now, she turned to one of the Mamluks.

"Open the door."

She stepped back, ready to run if the room held anything unwelcoming. The undead guard obediently moved forward and placed one gaunt hand over the doorknob, twisted slowly, and pushed the door inward with a creak.

Nothing happened. She peered inside over the Mamluk's shoulders, getting a glimpse of an expansive room and a large window at the opposite end. Could this be it?

"Walk inside," she ordered both of the guards. They did as they were told, and neither of them encountered any traps or hidden surprises. So far it seemed safe.

She stepped fully inside and looked around in growing wonder and excitement, recognizing the vast room as the study where Mozenrath had concocted his elusive plan. Her eyes swept over the tall bookshelves and wide tables, now cleared of any spell ingredients and loose paper. It seemed he had cleaned it up, perhaps in preparation for her. She looked around carefully once again and did not see the hourglass anywhere.

She walked further into the room, taking careful note of the position of every object and how they were the same or different from the vision she had seen. She strained to remember which shelf held the book of theory. After circling the room several times, she finally found the angle at which she'd observed the scene in the Mirror, and stood in the approximate spot to gain her bearings.

The shelf that he must have taken the book from loomed impossibly high, but she ignored everything above her eye level. He had selected it from the fourth or fifth row up if she remembered correctly.

She scanned countless foreign bindings until she found it. An unremarkable book of medium thickness, bound by a leather cover. Its title was spelled in neat block letters, lacking embellishment.

She approached a table and set down both books in her possession. She opened the leather book to its first page and found a table of contents.

_I. Introduction_

_II. The First Prohibition and its Implications_

_III. The Second Prohibition and its Implications_

_IV. The Third Prohibition and its Implications_

_V. Conclusion_

The introduction was bewilderingly long, with small words packed densely together on each page. How had Mozenrath even managed to find any useful information in the short time he had flipped through this?

_The essence of all magic is power. This is an undisputed fact, though some semanticists may still argue that such a statement is redundant, or that it fails to properly capture the relationship between the two. For the purposes of this work, we shall assume the relationship may be dissected in several distinct ways. But first, we must settle on a working definition of magic, an elusive term that has generated countless debates since the dawn of history._

_Magic is, most simply, the channel or method through which one invokes supernatural forces and/or brings about a supernatural result. The term supernatural in turn refers to those events that are counter to the laws of nature and the observable universe – not merely improbable occurrences, but impossible events that may only transpire when magic is applied in some locus in the physical plane. _

_The practice of magic requires power, as all practitioners know intimately. This is the first relationship – that of requirement and necessity. In order to invoke supernatural forces or bring about an unnatural change in one's natural environment, one must have sufficient power in order to perform magic. At the crudest level, this entails a physical body in decent form and health, able to act as a channel for the magical force from within. Beyond this, one must have adequate mental faculties, a balance of humors…_

Her eyes were starting to skip lines already from the dryness of the text. She flipped back to the table of contents.

There were three prohibitions. The thought intrigued her in its seeming familiarity.

She flipped to the first chapter. Again, the sheer density of the text threatened to overwhelm her mind, which was still stretched taut from her strange journey down the enchanted hallway. But she forced herself to focus and began to read.

_The first prohibition is the immutable safeguard of all sentient life. Once born, a human being cannot be destroyed. The flesh may be rendered lifeless, but the soul is interminable. No amount of force, magical or non-magical, may put an end to it. The reasons are both simple and intricately complex, as detailed in another work in this series regarding the nature of souls. We shall not delve into those rather miry waters in this volume, however._

_Simply put, in theory, the termination of a soul requires more power than what any living being in existence possesses or may harness. Not even the famed "all-powerful" jinnis of old wielded enough power in their vast magical fiber to accomplish such a feat. And thus magic reaches its own terminal point; there is a limit to the supernatural events magic may unlock or conjure._

She stopped and flipped to the middle of the chapter, hoping there was something more useful waiting for her there.

…_key to the ultimate threshold of power therefore cannot lie here. The balance will always be negative, if the transaction can even occur in the first place, as more power will always be required to "break" the prohibition than is naturally and supernaturally possible._

She read over those words again, concentrating on the first sentence. It was expected that Mozenrath would be interested in the "ultimate threshold of power," whatever that was. But this book said that the first prohibition, regarding the destruction of souls, was not the path to such power.

She realized why the material seemed familiar. The three prohibitions ran parallel to the laws governing Genie's existence. Though he was now free, he still could not kill, make people fall in love, or raise the dead. But this book delved much deeper than those simple laws. She had thought killing merely meant murder. Apparently, the prohibition entailed much more. Jinnis, or any living being, could not destroy souls.

A chilling thought struck her. She had not thought about the nature of Mozenrath's gauntlet too deeply, but if this book of theory were true, then the souls attached to the vile object were still intact. The making of the gauntlet did not entail the destruction of souls. Rather, they were harnessed as sources of power, slaves even in death. Her grip on the book tightened involuntarily. He was indeed heartless. To knowingly keep countless thousands of people enslaved, bound to his thirst for power and domination…

Her grip slackened as she realized that he was trapped now as well. He was trapped by the curse of the gauntlet, condemned never to be parted from it, even when it was forcefully removed from him. She recalled once more the time they had successfully taken it from him and locked it away. It had still returned to him. And it was slowly sapping away his life, measured by the trickling sands of the hourglass.

She had hit upon a maddening puzzle yet again. He was too attached to his gauntlet to ever let it go. But at the same time this thirty day challenge seemed to involve breaking free of its curse. Would it be possible for him to break free of the hourglass while keeping the gauntlet's destructive power? She could not allow him to do that. After all she had seen of his life, all she had come to feel for him, the very idea that he would continue unchanged sickened her to the core. She would have to break the gauntlet's hold on him.

She read on with new determination, anxious to discover the secret of this book, the spark that had inspired his challenge to her. The next chapter gave her pause.

It was about love, wasn't it?

_The second prohibition is a safeguard against the violation of free choice, one of the fundaments defining sentience. Without freedom of will, a living being cannot be conscious, and a person loses his personhood, his humanity._

_Force may indeed be applied to achieve a certain effect that is counter to what a second party wills. However, force cannot be applied to alter the will itself. The very act of murder is an example of this fact. Murder is the intentional taking of life against the victim's consent. If the latter consented to death, the act would not be considered murder._

_A more complicated example may be found in the laws governing several species of magical beings, namely jinnis. Love cannot be forced upon any unwilling individual. Indeed, it is counter to its very nature. The philosophical trappings of this ambiguous term are too complex to discuss adequately here, but in order to understand one of the most fitting illustrations of the nature of this prohibition, we must first examine its stipulations._

_While love cannot be forced upon any individual, it also cannot be terminated by force. It is beyond any individual's control in its beginning and end. It does begin and it may end – these facts are certain. The bold assertion that all love is eternal, as if all love is equal and commensurate, is plainly false. However, the start and possible end of love cannot be influenced by any external application of power._

_One might question then the numerous cases throughout history when love was supposedly induced in a number of hapless women of varying social position, through means of magic or herbal mixtures. A flimsy counterargument. Even the most refined magical spell can only induce a high degree of lust, physical longing and emotional attachment, not the fundamental layers of love that are discussed in other volumes._

_But then, if no individual has complete free choice or power over love, how is love relevant to the subject of this book? The radical idea I will now present requires patience and a temporary suspension of doubt; the reader is entreated to continue reading before coming to premature conclusions._

_The key to the ultimate threshold of power is elusive and highly implausible, but if it exists at all, it is most probable that it lies in love._

_The reader has perused enough of this scholarly work thus far to know that this is not intended as a poetic statement or idealistic axiom. But we might actually look at the endless seas of poetry, song, and tragic death that have adorned history in the name of love, and remove our conceited spectacles of scholarship to see that clearly, there is enormous power in this indefinable state of being. The metaphysical exploration of this universal force is a task for another scholar and another time, but the mere fact of the innate power in love cannot be denied. How to harness this power, then? The rest of this chapter will address such implications._

_One may take another's life against the latter's will. One may injure, steal, rob, and commit a plethora of other crimes against another individual. One can thus lead another man to become his enemy. The old sages of the East call this a negative flux of soul energy. Among scientific circles, it is known that nature tends toward chaos, that all order is pulled down toward disorder, another type of negative flux._

_But to act counter to nature? To act against this downward spiral? Is this not the true definition of "supernatural?" For all relations between individuals, groups, and even nations that have soured into distrust, enmity, and discord, crafting countless stories of history that have been dissected and interpreted in myriad ways by learned men, how many stories of positive flux have gone unnoticed, ignored, overlooked in our captivation with doom?_

_Positive flux entails just the opposite of its counterpart. Scattered pieces of disorder and discord uniting, the scathingly rough edges of each piece coming together in harmony, forming a bridge between two parties that previously harbored no such connection. Why has no scholar, let alone any practitioner of the magic arts, paid any notice to the potential of this aspect of fluvial theory? Common sense dictates that an equal if not greater amount of power lies in the building of bridges than in tearing them down. As any engineer knows, it is much more difficult to construct a monument than to demolish it, both in terms of time, human and animal labor, mental planning, raw materials, and so on._

She paused, trying to absorb all she had just read. The dry words had taken on new life in her mind. She was close, closer than she had ever been to solving the great mystery that had plagued her life for a seeming eternity. Love was the key, of course; she knew that already. But what was this "ultimate threshold of power?" And how was he supposed to harness the power that supposedly lay in her love for him?

_Another implication worth considering is the maximum amount of power that might be extracted from this metaphysical process. And here I propose another radical notion: that the most power may be found in not only the birth and growth of love, but in the transformation from hatred to love, polar opposites which lie as close to each other as two sides of a coin, as two voices in antiphonal harmony._

She stared at the page, the text melding together in her vision as she let this new revelation sink in.

The transformation from hatred to love…was that what he had been aiming at all along? To harness the most power…

It made sense, though it was all theoretical. But had Mozenrath succeeded in making it work? How was it even possible to capture such elusive emotions and feelings in magic?

She wished she knew enough about magic to figure out what remained of this puzzle. She was so close to the end, yet there was still so much she did not know. How exactly did this theory apply to the situation he had set up for her? Why wasn't he giving her any clues about the next step, or the final step, for that matter?

An unearthly howl jarred her out of her contemplative thoughts. She looked up toward the long window that stretched from the floor toward the ceiling, the dark sky outside heavy with shrouded sunlight. Something was out there. It sounded close.

She backed away from the table, clutching the blank book in her hands though it was still an absurdly ineffective defense. The creature outside howled again, even closer this time. The discordant sound of claws raking against the wall made her jump. A sleek black shape flitted across the bottom pane of the window, followed by a bright flash of flame.

She backed away faster, ready to make a run for it if the creature broke through the window. She collided with a solid body behind her, and shrieked as she turned to face the deadened eyes of a Mamluk. She took a slow, deliberate breath to dispel her fears, reminding herself that these Mamluks were her servants, her only protection in fact, against whatever was outside the Citadel.

The undead hounds. She knew she recognized that sound from somewhere. She had only seen three of them before in the Mirror, locked on the trail of a runaway princess, about to devour her alive before Mozenrath had intervened. But why wasn't he coming for her now?

Her back hit the door and she groped anxiously for the doorknob, pulling forcefully, ready to run into the hall.

But the door was locked. The knob would not turn. She glanced at it fearfully, wondering what was happening, why she was trapped. What kind of new game was this? Was he trying to drive her mad?

The book fell from her shaking hand onto the floor and flopped open to the center, where the two words were all but smeared across the page, the ink dripping from the letters. She wrenched her eyes away from the nightmarish scrawl that stood like a fatal warning in her mind, and concentrated on escaping the room.

A bone-splitting screech pierced the air, forcing her to cover her ears. Her own scream was drowned out by the answering chorus of deathly howls outside the window. A canine shape leapt toward the window and slammed into the glass, its claws scrabbling for purchase among the panes. But it soon lost its hold and dropped out of sight once again, leaving a splatter of dark liquid across the window.

It had been…injured?

There were two distinct sounds now in clear conflict outside. One was the familiar chilling howl of the undead dogs. The other was the high-pitched screech that was quickly rendering her ears useless.

And then she saw it. Another four-legged creature latched onto the window, its body covered in bright orange fire, and there was an alarming crack of glass as its claws sank in. It reared its fiery head, and its emerald green eyes narrowed, focusing directly on her.

She froze in absolute terror, not daring to breathe as it drew one claw across the window, rending the air with a grating cacophony. She could see the glowing scratches in the glass, the weakening defenses of whatever enchantments Mozenrath must have covered his Citadel with. They were failing.

Firecats were not Mozenrath's creatures. They were Mirage's.

Genie had told her about their first encounter with the cat goddess. She had burned a village and nearly killed its inhabitants with these creatures. And now she had sent them here to break into the stronghold of a dark sorcerer.

She tugged on the door harder, wishing that she had a lock pick, greater strength, or anything that could get her out of there. In the split-second that she turned away, the beast disappeared from the lacerated window, and she heard a dismayed screech and the sounds of a violent scuffle.

The undead dogs were fighting them. She had never thought she would be grateful for the presence of such unholy creatures. But there was no time to waste. She ordered the Mamluks to help her break down the door. She would not stand here and wait for the window to shatter and for some fiery animal to slash her throat.

Mirage knew she was here.

She had been entirely too narrow-minded in her endeavor to solve his challenge. How could she overlook the fact that there was another powerful force of evil involved? Mozenrath was not merely fighting against the cold sands of the hourglass. He was fighting against a goddess with enormous power and a penchant for cruelty, perhaps on par with Destane.

"Mozenrath!" she shouted desperately. "Mozenrath, where are you?"

She shrieked as a massive blast shook the room, leaving a long crack in the floor. One of the expansive bookshelves teetered precariously, ready to topple. She dove to the side as an avalanche of books and scrolls pounded into the floor, missing her by mere inches. The Mamluks had been completely buried and probably dismembered under the force of the impact.

She clutched her heart, eyes darting toward the window once again, and found that the glass had shattered completely. She covered her mouth before she could scream, utterly terrified that one of the cats would hear her, though they already knew where she was. She had never felt so trapped in her life.

She tensed in hopeless fear as a dark form jumped through the open window and landed heavily on its front legs. It was not a firecat. Its ghostly eyes found her immediately, ragged ears flattening against its skeletal head. Its rear legs materialized from a cloud of smoke, and it turned around to face the window again, crouching as if ready to strike the next creature that came through the window.

Four more of the undead dogs leaped into the room in quick succession, each of them eyeing her with an intense, ravenous gaze before turning around, seemingly guarding the opening. Another blast shook the air, and her head slammed painfully against the wall before she slumped down, disoriented and trying desperately to focus on what was happening.

The dogs stood their ground as the sounds of the battle outside ceased. There were no more flashes of flame or unearthly screeches from the firecats. She pressed her back against the wall as the hounds raised their heads in a long, chilling howl.

Then she heard submissive whimpers as the hounds parted suddenly, clearing a path for the new figure that alighted on the floor. She gasped at the sight of blood splattered across blue and black robes.

He strode toward her quickly from across his ruined study, his pale mouth set in a tight line, eyes terribly cold. He reached her just as he finished chanting a spell and grabbed her roughly by the arm. The breath left her lungs and her surroundings went black.

She landed on the cold floor of another room, a sharp pain spearing through her back from the abrupt fall.

Mozenrath stood stoically by a window, his back turned to her. She tried to stand shakily and stumbled several times, still seized with the lingering effects of terror. He had brought her to his own room. There was a large bed against the wall, draped with a dark violet canopy. The room held little else aside from a few cabinets and a desk.

"M…Mozenrath?"

She finally managed to get to her feet and braced herself against one wall, making her way over to him. His eyes were riveted on the black desert outside, and she followed the direction of his gaze. The dark sands were alight in flame with the disappearing trails of fire from Mirage's cats, turning tail and fleeing from the onslaught of the undead creatures under his command.

"Mozenrath…what's going on?" she said as steadily as she could, placing one hand on his shoulder.

"What does it look like, Princess?" he said coolly, his voice belying the tension in his shoulders.

She pulled on his arm gently, turning him to face her, and her eyes widened in alarm at the amount of blood on his clothes.

"Healed already," he said curtly and broke away from her touch. He turned toward the window and watched the last of the firecats vanish in a burst of flame. "Damn her."

"Has she attacked before?"

"No."

She noticed his gauntleted hand gripping the windowsill, faint smoke rising from the leather. Mirage had caught him completely off guard.

She felt a prick of guilt, but she stopped herself from apologizing. It wasn't her fault that Mirage had attacked. He should have known that his enemy might have planned something like this.

"She sent the firecats for me," Jasmine stated.

A cruel scowl twisted his features. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Then can you just tell me what is going on?" she said, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. There was no time left for vague riddles.

He stared out the window for a long moment, watching the undead hounds disperse from the remnants of the battle, and finally answered her.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I can't believe you have the nerve to keep asking me that. No, I haven't figured it out. If I had, I wouldn't still be here. I'd be safe and sound back in my own kingdom, which I never should have left. Why can't you just tell me what you want?"

He had closed his eyes during her tirade, in all appearances calm and composed. But when he opened them again, she had to draw back in apprehension at what she saw there.

"I suppose the Mirror of Fiereve wasn't worth the trip then, if you came out just as ignorant and slow as before," he said with uninhibited malice. "Tell me what little you do know."

"I found the book you wanted me to open," she said between gritted teeth, holding back her anger. "It basically told me that I don't trust you and I haven't forgiven you, which is obvious given the circumstances." She resisted the temptation to continue accusing him. "I went into the hall to look for your study, and walked right into your illusion."

He looked at her sharply. "What illusion?"

She paused, confused. "A shadowy hallway full of doors? A child singing?"

His glowering expression changed slightly, but she knew that everything that he allowed to show on his face was merely an infinitesimal glimpse of what he actually felt.

"You…you didn't set that illusion?" she said hesitantly.

His expression tightened into coiled anger and a tinge of worry. "No."

He turned away from her again, his gloved hand clenching into a tight fist. He slammed it against the windowsill, making her jump.

"Damn her! She managed to get through the walls!"

It was shocking to see him so agitated. He had never let down his guard like this around her. But it must have stemmed from his weakness as well. Just a few minutes ago he had been outside defending his stronghold from Mirage's forces, perhaps providing the needed edge for his undead hounds to drive the firecats back. And she realized it was another point of shame for him that Mirage had only sent her minions to fight instead of showing up herself. Though he had driven her creatures off his land, the victory was still hers.

Jasmine bit her lip and continued as if he hadn't interrupted. "I broke free of the illusion and found your study. I read the book I saw in the Mirror, the one on prohibitionary theory. I think…I might have a guess at the answer."

He didn't look at her, continuing to stare out the window. But she could tell he was keenly interested in what she was saying, and realized she could now read his expressions, no matter how nuanced they were. It was a small step of progress, and she began to feel she was no longer fighting against him, but with him against an even greater sinister force. It was time to stop thinking of her victories as his losses, and vice versa.

"I know you want me to love you, Mozenrath. I already do." She thought of it not as a barefaced admission, but as a cold statement of fact. "I also know that you want to harness the power in that love somehow. But I don't know how. All I read was theory, no application. I trustyou have that figured out on your end. Care to share?"

He gave her a measured look and walked away, heading for a nearby closet. His gloved hand rested on the door handle as he replied, not looking at her.

"You left that book back in the study."

"Because I was done reading—"

"No. The first book."

"Well, it wasn't exactly on my list of priorities since my life was in danger," she retorted. "Why didn't you pick it up if it's so important?"

He opened the closet with a forceful jerk, and the brutal efficiency of his movements made her step back. The coiled tension in his shoulders told her he was a hairsbreadth away from snapping.

"Maybe because I was too busy defending my land and your pathetic life."

She backtracked at the warning tone in his voice, knowing that arguing with him at this point was outright dangerous. She had never seen him like this, but what did she expect? That he'd be calm and composed after his greatest enemy had almost broken through all his defenses and captured the one person he needed to save his life?

"Okay. Let me just get this straight…"

The words faded from her throat as he began to remove his bloodied clothing, tossing it on the floor in a haphazard pile. She drew in a breath that she hoped he didn't hear and went on. There was no underlying intent in his actions now. He was too angry to care about propriety.

"Mirage wants you dead…and you're supposed to be dead at the end of thirty days, right? That's how you set up the challenge. And she just happened to attack now to catch you off guard and maybe try to kill you or sap your energy faster. And she didn't know I was here, but now she does." Her eyes traced the lean ridges of his shoulders as he removed his bloodstained undershirt, and she wondered just how deeply he'd been wounded. "One of her firecats saw me."

He whirled sharply, his dark gaze rooting her in place. Her eyes trailed across the bloodied skin of his chest and took in the freshly healed scars and shallow lacerations that remained. He hadn't healed himself completely. The intensity of his stare drew her eyes back up to his face, his curly hair now uncovered by the ornamented headdress he always wore. It was her first glimpse of him as he had been in the Mirror, before he had taken the gauntlet as his own.

"You let them see you," he stated.

Several retorts immediately sprang to her lips, but she clamped down on the impulse to fight.

"I'm sorry," she conceded. "She's going to come for me now, isn't she?"

He didn't answer, merely dragging a hand through his hair. He looked wearier than she remembered, without his refined attire to hide his thin frame and wounds. The dark circles under his eyes seemed more prominent without the graceful cut of his headdress around his face.

"How are you going to defeat her? What do you need me to do?"

"What did the book tell you?"

She wasn't certain about which book he was referring to, but she hazarded a guess. "Trust and forgiveness. I'm supposed to gain them somehow."

He opened a smaller door to the side of the closet, and she heard the sound of splashing water. There was a soft thud as his gauntlet dropped to the floor. He wrung a cloth and wiped his skin, grimacing slightly when he brought it over the cuts that were still unhealed. Her fingers twitched, instinctively reaching with the desire to help him.

But he shook off her hand as she drew near, dropping the towel into the basin on the floor before bending down and wringing the blood out of it. She noticed the juncture of his shoulder and arm was wrapped tightly in bandages. Fortunately, they had not been dirtied in the fight.

She stood back quietly and waited for him to finish. Then she had to turn away with a flush of embarrassment and indignation when he removed his shoes and began to tug at his pants. Facing the wall, she folded her arms and cleared her throat pointedly. There was a pause and a curt chuckle behind her as she heard the rustle of cloth against skin.

"What's the matter? Don't trust me yet?"

She was glad he could not see how her skin flushed, though her silence made her discomfort obvious.

Her stomach growled unexpectedly. She hadn't eaten breakfast, and her throat was parched. He must have heard it, as he moved away from her then and opened another cabinet.

"Catch."

She turned just in time as he threw a fist-sized fruit at her. She saw a flash of pink before she caught it with both hands and got a full glimpse of it.

She froze.

"This…this is…"

He looked at her quizzically, now dressed in a plain black robe and sandals. His wavy hair was damp, stray curls plastered against one side of his face. In his skeletal hand he held an identical piece of fruit halfway to his mouth.

"You…" she said in bewilderment and rising anger. "You emptied the Tree of Renewal!"

He raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her outburst. "For a non-magical being, you really have been around to quite a few magical places. Was it the jinni or the bird that told you about that one, Princess?"

She ignored his jab and stalked up to him, seething. "You did poison my father! I knew it! Why did you lie to me?"

He frowned and set the fruit down, not flinching under her glare.

"But why am I even asking that question? It's not like you've never lied to me before. Every single step of the way! And you still expect me to trust you?" She let out a bitter laugh. "I don't trust you, Mozenrath. I just can't. And if you die at the end of thirty days because of that, you have only yourself to blame, not me."

"I didn't lie," he said calmly. "This is the third time I've told you. I didn't poison your father."

"Oh, and how am I supposed to believe you? You took all the fruit from the Tree of Renewal—and probably drained the Elixir of Life, too—so I would have to come crawling to you to save my father! I thought—"

"I took the fruit long before your father was poisoned. It is obviously beyond your knowledge that the Tree of Renewal grows new fruit only every several months. It isn't an instantaneous process. Magical healing items must be limited in this way, otherwise they would be too easily available. And yes, I did take the Elixir of Life as well. But again, it was quite some time ago. Has it not occurred to you that perhaps there is _someone else _who might want to harm your father?"

Jasmine paused under the steady weight of his explanation. "Mirage."

He smiled mockingly. "Princesses can be taught to think after all. Yes, that is who I suspected initially. But of course, it wouldn't do to frighten you by telling you that, would it? You have enough on your plate already just dealing with me."

"You should have told me," she said defiantly, but the urge to fight had leaked out of her, replaced by concern and fear. If Mirage had targeted her father… "But why would she have wanted to kill him? What would that have accomplished?"

He rolled his eyes. "And she sinks back into the princess mold again. Think, Princess, think. With your father dead, who would have to succeed him on the throne?"

"I...would," she answered dumbly. "And I'd have no time to deal with your challenge."

"And even if he hadn't died, you would still be so busy rushing around trying to save his pathetic life that you wouldn't have much time to do anything else, would you?"

"But didn't Mirage know about your power to heal?"

He shrugged. "Goddesses are little better than princesses in the brains department."

She bristled before letting the insult slide. "Then…you took the fruit and the Elixir to heal yourself?"

He rolled his eyes once again. "No, just as an afternoon snack." He grew serious. "I actually took them to extend another life."

A missing puzzle piece suddenly snapped into place. An earlier observation she had all but forgotten slid seamlessly into the forefront of her mind.

"Xerxes."

Mozenrath nodded expressionlessly. "He was at the end of his natural lifespan. Suffice it to say neither of them worked."

It struck her as odd that he would go to such lengths to save his familiar. He was just an eel, after all, having lost his human personality long ago. But she felt a twinge of shame at her judgment of him. She had to amend her view of him once again; he hadn't let go of his friendship with Xerxes, the only link to his past. A past where he hadn't yet paid the full price for his power in blood and personal sacrifice.

The question of why he had tried so hard to save Xerxes died on her lips. But to her surprise, he answered it anyway.

"Believe me, Princess, if I could have used Xerxes to preserve my life, I would have. But he wasn't human. Not human enough anymore, at least," he said with sudden bitterness. "But you know that, don't you?"

Though it was a relief that he was finally being open with her, she felt her sympathy fade. Nothing in his voice seemed to reveal sorrow or regret at his friend's death; he seemed bitter only because he hadn't been able to break the curse earlier without getting into this messy situation with a human princess.

"You know, I wonder if you've ever done anything remotely selfless," she said curtly. "Anything that wasn't manipulative and meant to further your own ends."

He looked at her levelly. "Yes. The fruit I just gave you was meant to heal your mind."

She paused and stared. "Heal my mind?"

"Yes, heal your mind," he said with slight annoyance.

"Can it restore my memories?"

"No. But it can tie up frayed ends. I'd prefer it if you weren't insane as well as stupid."

She looked down at the fruit in her hands, suddenly remembering its odd taste from some time in the past. She had gone to the Tree of Renewal to turn herself from a snake back to a human. And it had been Mirage who had caused her transformation, though she could not remember why.

She glanced up at him once again as she realized that this was truly his first act of altruism toward her. He'd saved her life before and healed her hand, but she had assumed then that it'd all been to keep her in adequate physical condition to complete his challenge. But the fact he hadn't planned to tell her about the fruit's healing properties meant it was actually possible for him to act selflessly. The thought dumbfounded her.

She took her first bite and felt the strange tangy flavor spread throughout her mouth, numbing her tongue as the juices flowed down her throat. Her mind was blanketed in a pleasant haze for a brief moment, and her vision blurred. It felt as if a warm salve was flowing through all the cracks in the fabric of her mind, filling the tears and joining the loose ends together.

Her vision cleared after several seconds, and she met his cool gaze with a genuine smile of relief.

"Thank you."

She half-expected him to mock her as he had the last two times she had thanked him. But he said nothing, turning to the side and taking his own piece of fruit from the shelf. He bit into it wordlessly and walked away, his free hand tracing the wall as he paced the length of the room.

"What are you doing?"

"Sealing the room."

There was a light sheen of sweat on his brow by the time he was finished. Even a low caliber spell seemed to drain him now. He wiped his forehead absently with one sleeve, taking the last bite of his fruit and crushing its stem in his palm. He leaned down and picked up his gauntlet, slipping it back over his right hand.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Just stay put," he said distractedly. He moved to the door and began a spell, but his shoulders suddenly tensed and he coughed violently.

She stopped short of touching him, knowing he hated to be seen in weakness. He straightened up and went back to the cabinet where he kept the fruit. He drew a small vial from a drawer above it and uncorked it quickly, downing the liquid in one gulp.

His face twisted into a disgusted grimace as he held down the fluid by the force of his will. It must have been the same potion he had taken in the last memory she had seen of him.

"What is that?" she asked quietly. He ignored her and moved back to the door. She persisted. "Some kind of medicine?"

He glared at her as he finished sealing the door with one last movement of his hands. "It's not anything you'd understand."

She frowned. "Stop belittling me, Mozenrath, and tell me what I can do."

"You can shut up for once."

"You're not gaining any of my trust or forgiveness this way."

"Is it my fault you're so irritating?"

"You're one to talk," she shot back. "So this is what you're really like when you're not trying to act like an emotional rock."

He shook his head. "It's scarcely been two days, and I already regret letting you in here."

"Oh, _you_ regret it? I'm not too happy either, given the fact I almost died today."

"You just owe me that much more for saving your pathetic life again."

"But you're still depending on me to save yours."

He shut his eyes and leaned against the door tiredly. She watched him in slight surprise. Was he going to give up that easily?

"I have to seal as many parts of the Citadel as possible. Mirage might return. Especially since she now knows you're here."

The open honesty still felt strange. "How long has she known about my involvement in this?"

"She's a goddess. She caught on early enough," he said wearily.

She watched the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the damp curls of his hair still plastered against his neck, and realized she was finally seeing his weaknesses.

"What should I do then?"

"I told you already. Just stay put."

"Stay in here? But this is your—"

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious," he cut in. "I don't trust you to wander anywhere else. Just stay here."

"But…" she trailed off, knowing from the hard look in his eyes that he would not change his mind. "Fine."

"Glad that you're finally learning to yield, Princess," he said, and opened the door to leave. "Oh, and wash my clothes while I'm gone, will you?"

She had no time to retort before he closed the door in her face. She didn't bother to test the handle.

She looked around the room, deciding she'd at least be able to hunt for more clues while she was in here. Her eyes lit up as she thought of the hourglass. He probably kept it close; perhaps it was here.

She rifled through the cabinets first, surprised by the sheer number of the fruit of Renewal he had stored here. The small drawer from which he had taken the vial was also filled with many more of the thin containers. She frowned at the pale purple liquid inside, wondering how often he had to drink it to have enough energy to function.

She suddenly realized why the color seemed so familiar. The Elixir of Life had been only a slightly darker shade of purple. He must have concocted this potion based on the magic elixir.

But it was obvious neither the fruit nor the potion was the solution to his problem. They could hold off the pain and weakness of dying, but they could not stop the hourglass.

She looked through several other cabinets and drawers, finding most of them empty. He lived sparsely for a ruler of a kingdom. Maybe because his kingdom didn't have a taxable population, or any population to speak of.

The hourglass was nowhere to be found. She turned toward his bed and hesitated to go any closer. Memories of the previous night resurfaced, and she had to rethink what she was even doing in here. These were his private quarters. And he had just allowed her to wander around inside without reservation. What exactly was going on between them?

This new flawed image of him was bewildering and liberating at the same time. He wasn't invincible or all-knowing. He was just a man who was close to death and desperate for a cure. He was an excellent actor and a shameless liar, but he could be caught off guard and he could be defeated; Mirage's attack today had proven that all too clearly.

So she had to return to the nagging question. What was happening between them? He was not her enemy as much as a reluctant accomplice in somehow thwarting Mirage's plans to take over his domain. The dynamic between them had changed accordingly from tense, veiled threats to harmless bickering.

Once this ordeal was over, though, what would happen? She felt a dull pain in her heart at the thought of leaving this all behind after she had been through so much for his sake. Would they go back to being enemies? Would he still try to conquer Agrabah, or perhaps move on to other lands? Or would he actually change?

She wondered just how many of these answers were within her power to determine. She held a considerable amount of power over his life, since he needed her to break the curse. But could she wield that power to influence him for the better? Was it even possible to coerce someone into becoming a better person?

No; it was just like forcing someone to love. It was not only a prohibition. It was an impossibility. Force could not change a person's heart. If he was not willing to change, there was simply nothing she could do about it.

She sighed and drew aside the curtain to his canopied bed, studying the patterns in the dark violet of the sheets. The texture was soft and inviting. She could perhaps take a rest until he returned. Surely he wouldn't be too surprised if she fell asleep after such a harrowing brush with death.

She lay down slowly at the foot of the bed, drawing the curtains closed so that the little light that illuminated the room could not filter in. Immersed in darkness, she soon drifted off to an exhausted sleep.

***

She awakened to the enticing smell of fresh bread and wondered sluggishly if her maids had brought food to her room.

"You remind me of another princess. One famed for her ability to sleep. Or rather, for her inability to wake up."

Blinking, she sat up and yawned. She was not surprised or fearful this time as she saw him sitting beside her on the bed.

"I'm awake," she said with just a bit of protest in her tired voice. "Food?"

He shook his head with a half-smile, handing her a piece of bread. "This is the least articulate I've seen you yet."

She ate quickly, not bothering to respond except to demand a drink a minute later.

"You didn't wash my clothes," he said with a look of annoyance.

"I'm not your servant."

"You're not even that high in the pecking order. You're a prisoner."

She frowned at him severely, running a hand through her disheveled hair.

"I need water."

"Wine will suffice."

He conjured an empty glass out of thin air and poured some of his own drink into it, then floated it over to her. She was sorely tempted to turn it over on his head.

"This is what happens when you consort with a street rat for too long. You can no longer appreciate the finer things in life."

The mention of Aladdin froze her in place. She blinked slowly and realized just what kind of position she had placed herself in. She was in his room, on his bed. And he was right beside her.

He merely laughed at her sudden discomfort and embarrassment. "Remembering our prudish manners, are we? Isn't it a bit too late for that, Princess?"

She shifted away, not touching the glass that floated by her head. He sighed and turned it into water. "Still no sense of humor."

She drank from it, still not responding. It seemed his anger and tension had totally dissipated. But she knew better than to think everything was fine. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, and a deep weariness lay just beneath the polished surface of his smug smile.

"So what happens now?" she asked once she had quenched her thirst. She sat up straighter and leaned against one of the bedposts, keeping a fair distance from him.

"What do you think happens now?"

"Can you just answer me?" she said, refusing to be led in circles. "I want to know what exactly is going on for the rest of these thirty days."

"What you mean to say is, what exactly is going on between us."

It threw her off guard that he stated so readily what she could not bring herself to say. "Yes."

"It's what you are willing to make of it, Princess. Nothing more, nothing less," he said simply, his tone now serious. "You already know what I require. Once you meet those requirements and lift the curse, you will be free to go."

It stung to hear him speak so plainly, though she had wanted a straightforward answer from him all along. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that he still saw her as a pawn. Perhaps it was better that way.

"So I'll return to Agrabah as its princess, and you'll remain the Lord of the Black Sand," she said slowly. Their paths might cross again in the future, but never again as equals, never again as allies. Or anything more, for that matter. She bit her lip at the thought; of course they could not be anything more. "It's your choice if you still want to be enemies, Mozenrath."

"Rather," he replied, "the choice is yours, Jasmine."

She paused, her eyes unable to leave his face. His expression hadn't changed at all, but suddenly everything else had.

"What?" she whispered.

"You can rest assured that your kingdom will not come to harm by my hands again once this ends," he continued, "as long as I am given no reason for hostility. I would offer to defend it when need be as well, if not for the obvious fact that it would raise suspicions. Take it as my payment for what this has cost you."

She only stared at him, struck twice by his unpredictability within a few seconds. She bit her lip and willed herself to think, to pry her heart free from his words. It was the closest he had come to humility. It was essentially an admission of his weakness, the acknowledgement that she alone had the power to determine whether he lived beyond these thirty days.

But she brought herself up short of gratitude. She could not be naïve, no matter how much she wanted to believe he was genuine in his intentions.

"How can I be sure you'll keep your word?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "That you won't just turn around and betray me when this is over?"

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," he said dryly.

She shook her head. "No. Answer me seriously. If you really want to gain my trust, it can't be through an empty promise. I need proof."

His gaze hardened, but she saw reluctant respect there as well. "Seems you're finally learning to play the politician, Jasmine."

She ignored the prick in her heart at the sound of her name. "I still can't afford to trust you, no matter how badly you need me to. I only trust you as an enemy; that hasn't changed. Maybe you'll no longer try to cause me the greatest loss, but you'll still do whatever allows you the greatest gain. I can't take that chance."

She could see the annoyance in his eyes, but his voice was even. "What would you have me do?"

Another forced step backward. It was obvious that it was not easy for him to make such concessions.

She took a breath and felt her heart constrict in warning. "I want you to swear to me that you'll keep your word. By Raniye's memory."

The air thickened in an instant, and she fought not to cringe from the sudden cold fury in his gaze. She stared back at him without apology.

"You don't even know what you're asking." His voice was deathly soft.

"You asked me what you would have to do, and I gave you my answer."

"You don't know her," he said harshly.

"I know enough—"

"You know nothing. You couldn't even begin to understand. So choose again." The command was unconditional.

She swallowed and kept her hands tightly curled to prevent them from shaking.

"This is the only thing that means enough to you—"

"Choose. Again."

Silence fell between them like a suffocating weight. She looked down at her hands.

"I'm sorry."

He did not respond. She could feel the intensity of his anger boring into her, and she was almost afraid to breathe. Perhaps she had no right to bring up Raniye's name, to use her memory to make such a request of him. But at least now she had her answer.

"I believe you," she said, and reached over to cover his hand with her own. He did not move a muscle, the flint in his eyes still carving into her skin. She drew back and folded her hands in her lap. "You can let me back into my room now."

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. "No. That room isn't adequately sealed. You'll stay here."

She nodded wordlessly, though in the back of her mind she questioned how they could spend the night together. But it seemed he was finished with their conversation, standing abruptly from the bed and making his way toward the cabinets. Halfway there he broke into coughs, clutching his chest as he doubled over. To her alarm, he spat blood into his palm. With a sinking heart she realized he truly could have lost his life in the battle today, and Mirage would only try to make it harder for him from now on.

"Mozenrath, you need to r—"

She froze.

He turned toward her with a questioning look.

"Oh no…" Her hands went to the sides of her face, digging into her scalp.

How could she have overlooked it? If Mirage had been able to poison her father so easily, there was no telling what else she was capable of and what she might plan to do now. The goddess knew she was in the Land of the Black Sand and that Mozenrath needed her to save his life. She could threaten Agrabah and hold the kingdom's welfare over her head—and force her to choose.

"Mozenrath," she said urgently. "I do need you to prove your word to me right now. You have to defend Agrabah from Mirage."

His eyes narrowed. "Does it look like I have any energy to spare?"

"I'm sorry. I know you're weak, but there isn't any other way," she pleaded. "If you don't protect Agrabah, Mirage could go after it. Knowing her, that's exactly what she'll do. She'll try to enslave or destroy it or worse, and I can't let that happen."

The resentment in his eyes lessened as he realized that this was not about her alone. Mirage's primary goal was to defeat him, and threatening Agrabah was just a method to achieve that.

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, and his gloved hand tightened into a fist. She approached him and stopped just beyond reach.

"I'll help you," she said. "Just tell me what—"

"You can't help," he dismissed her curtly. "Just be quiet and let me think."

She did not protest for once, merely standing back as he shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. The tension in his weakened frame looked almost painful.

He seemed to come to a decision and walked briskly to the door. She automatically followed, but stopped when he spoke.

"No. You'll only get in the way."

"Where are you going?"

"It doesn't concern you. Stay here."

"Just be careful," she said simply.

The door closed forcefully behind him, and she was left to stand alone, not knowing how he was planning to save her city and keep himself from collapsing at the same time. She couldn't help but feel guilty over the demand she'd made, even though it was ultimately for his own good. If he managed to do this, she would be hard pressed not to trust him. They would both be closer to where they needed to be.

***

When the little sunlight that could survive on his land vanished under the horizon several hours later, she began to feel real worry. The room was immersed in darkness and was growing steadily colder from the drafts of air coming in from the desert.

Shivering, she went to the window and looked down at the vast, silent desert below. It was a long way down, and she didn't know the exterior of the Citadel well enough to tell if it was easily scalable. She had been toying with the idea of leaving to find him for a while, held back only by the risk that she would step outside the boundaries of the seal he had placed over certain parts of the Citadel. She could tear down the canopy from his bed and knot it into a rope, and hope she wouldn't fall. But being able to leave this room didn't mean she would be able to find him. She didn't even know if he was still in the Land of the Black Sand or if he had gone to Agrabah.

What if he had run into trouble there? What if Mirage had stopped him on the way, or Aladdin and their friends had found him? Logically she knew he would not be so careless, but the fact remained that it was already nightfall and he had not returned.

She was about to go through with her rudimentary escape plan when the handle on the door twisted. She jumped back, heart pounding, but calmed quickly and waited for him to enter.

Relief washed through her as the door opened and she saw his familiar outline in the darkness. Without acknowledging her, he shut the door behind him and walked mechanically toward the bed, shoulders tense and straight.

It didn't fool her. The fact that the room was still unlit testified to his utter exhaustion. She was there before he reached the bed and his steps faltered. She quickly caught his arm and dragged it over her shoulders to support him, for once able to ignore the sickly feel of the bones under his gauntlet. To her surprise, he tugged the glove off with his other hand and carelessly tossed it aside. She almost lost her balance then as he collapsed on the bed, the rigid control he had forced over his body dissolving completely. She shifted to accommodate his weight and helped him sit up.

"Did you—" she began.

"Yes," he replied.

Another wave of relief. She breathed out with a measure of peace. "Thank you."

She let go of him carefully and pulled her legs up onto the bed, then moved behind him and knelt, setting her hands on his shoulders. He tensed again at her touch but did not turn when she began to knead the knotted muscles under his thin robe. She concentrated her mind fully on her hands and the limited area she had to work with. There was nothing intimate about this; it was merely necessity.

He relaxed gradually under her steady touch, her knuckles pressing into his back and shoulders and neck and working out each coiled spot with patience. They were impossible to count. She continued despite the growing ache in her hands, her gaze riveted on where her fingers met his tortured body.

She felt a calming exhalation leave his lungs when she shifted to a sitting position and moved forward, sliding her legs around him and off the edge of the bed. She kneaded the edges of his shoulders, careful to avoid the juncture of flesh and bone on his right arm. Pressed close to his back, she could feel his heartbeat thudding steadily in gentle rhythm with hers.

Eventually she finished the painstaking work of siphoning the tension from his body and let her hands fall to his sides, hesitantly encircling his waist. Leaning forward, she rested her cheek against the ridge of his shoulder. They sat in placid silence for a long moment.

"What did you do?" she asked softly.

She could feel the vibrations of his voice through his back. "The shield around your kingdom will hold for the next fifteen days. Mirage and her creatures will not be able to enter."

"How did you manage?"

"I'm not going to explain it to you."

"No. How did you manage like this?"

A measured silence. "I'm afraid I had little choice."

The dull edge of guilt remained as she closed her eyes, still resting against him. She could hear the deep weariness in his tone; there would be no more questions. But she could leave him with an assurance, at least.

"I don't think it's going to take fifteen days," she said softly.

Before he could turn, she drew back from him and tugged lightly on his arm. She had kept him from rest long enough.

The look in his eyes was guarded, but there was something new and strange there that warmed her from within. As they lay down beside each other, she gave him a small, rare smile, then closed the space between their breaths and kissed him. His gaze was unreadable once more, but she felt no more fear.

She curled against his side, the weight of his arm around her waist, and they slept.

***

16.

***


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The streets of Agrabah were swelteringly hot. She had almost forgotten how it felt to walk under the blistering sun with no shield but a thin shawl plastered to her skin. She was still far from the palace, and somehow the main road she had always taken was gone, replaced by a narrow and winding path.

Even the few merchants that sold wares here seemed to have retired in the midday heat, retreating into their homes and hawking what few items they could offer from the shade of their windows. Dust entered her shoes, caking under the soles of her feet as it mixed with her sweat. The pure white towers and golden spires of the palace blurred in the distance, a faint illusion of paradise. The brief memory of the cool fountain in her garden and the splash of cold water quickened her step, only to flood her with dizziness as the extreme heat burned her lungs.

She braced herself against a wall in an alley to catch her breath and rest, grateful for the small bit of shade. The drone of the heat filled her ears, muffling the drowsy sounds of life on the streets.

Someone was leaning against the wall beside her. His presence did not surprise her; it was almost as if he had been there the whole time. Something icy and damp touched her thinly covered arm. She accepted the flask of water from him with wordless gratitude, her hand brushing briefly against the cool leather of his glove. She closed her eyes in bliss as cold, life-giving water flowed down her throat, immediate relief to her overheated system. He hadn't given her wine this time, she realized.

"You're almost there."

His words were cool as the water he had graciously provided. Covered in a dark, hoodless robe, he seemed almost part of the shadows. As she watched his expressionless face, she saw that his skin was smooth and dry. She reached up and touched his cheek.

Cold leather curled around her fingers. "You're almost there."

She nodded, the numbing haze of the heat receding slightly when she looked into his eyes, dark and intent.

"Almost…" he whispered against her skin as he drew her close, and her tired figure slid seamlessly against him. She felt the rough, hard wall against her back as he leaned into her, one hand drawing the hood back from her face, brushing the sensitive skin near her ear and sending a thrill down her spine.

He exhaled coolly against her mouth as their lips met, and the sudden mix of hot and cold stirred her senses. It was an alien feeling, but grew familiar as she felt his hands on her waist, smoothing across the slick skin of her back underneath her sweat-soaked robe.

She deepened their kiss and her arms encircled his shoulders, fingers entangled in his hair. She still thirsted, though not for the cool flask, and he obliged her as his tongue parted her lips, meeting hers in a slow dance of enticing promise. His hands slid lower on her waist, tracing the line of fabric low on her hips, and she was suddenly aware of the sound of her own breathing.

"Almost…" She felt his smile against her lips.

She closed her eyes at the pressure building within from the raze of his touch. The wall at her back seemed to lose its solidity as her world tilted off center with a single brush of his hand, and the second time she shuddered and spoke his name as a plea. She pressed further into his touch, legs around his hips, striving to close every small pocket of distance between their skin and hands and lips.

She looked up at him with half-lidded eyes and felt a question resonate through his next breath. He was ready against her, waiting to close the last distance. Somehow the thought did not frighten her. She kissed him, tasting need and want and a fine line of patience. She whispered her answer.

A forlorn wail broke into her words.

The wall was suddenly solid and unyielding at her back once more, the world righting itself with unwanted balance. She opened her eyes and felt the distance rush in to fill the emptiness of her desires. His skin was hot and too close.

At the sound of hurried footsteps, she looked toward the opening of the narrow alley. A small figure dashed out of sight, and the child's second cry jarred her fully out of her trance. Familiar apprehension crept along her limbs; she knew the girl.

She no longer felt him near her as she moved away from the wall and toward the opening of the alleyway. She looked back once to amend her answer—

—and found he was gone. The alley was empty. The flask he had given her lay on the dusty ground, spilled water dampening a small patch of dirt.

She did not question where he had gone, accepting his disappearance as naturally as her sudden yearning to find the weeping child. She ran into the street, turning around to get her bearings, trying to spot the child she was sure she had seen somewhere before. Her heart pounded in her ears, skin burning hot once again under the noonday sun. She caught a glimpse of long black hair some distance away, the child's thin frame vanishing into a crowded street.

She ran after her, muscles already burning with strain, sweat trickling down her face and dripping from her chin. She was entering a busier street now, where stauncher merchants still set up carts under the sun, braving the heat for the sake of a few more sales. Heads turned as she dashed by them, narrowly missing those who were just coming out of their homes, almost stumbling on uneven ground scored by wheelbarrow tracks.

How did she know the girl? Her mind was racing to remember. Had she seen her in the marketplace before? Had she perhaps saved her life during one of the many disasters that had struck Agrabah? Why was she crying?

The noise of the marketplace made it impossible for her to track the girl by the sounds of her weeping. But she still strained to hear any hint of her voice, wishing she could comfort her and take away her sorrow.

She was forced to slow down by the acrid burn in her lungs, and felt the muscles of her legs weaken further as the flood of adrenaline began to wane. There had to be a way to catch up, but she was too weak.

"What is the matter, dear?"

She turned at the sound of a woman's voice. It was the vendor who owned the cart where she had stopped to catch her breath. She was still beautiful in middle age, dressed demurely in a white caftan, her shoulders covered with a dark red shawl. Her black hair flowed halfway down her back, neatly trimmed around the defined angles of her face. She eyed Jasmine curiously, raising one finely manicured eyebrow.

Before she could recall if she had seen her before, the woman's mouth curved in a pitying frown, and she drew a silk handkerchief from her cart to dab at Jasmine's sweat-streaked face.

"You poor thing, why are you in such a rush? Overexertion will ruin your complexion."

"I'm looking…for a girl…" Jasmine panted, still faint of breath.

"A girl?" She furrowed her brow as if in careful thought. "Oh, that poor creature. She sounded heartbroken, with all those precious tears! You must be her mother."

Jasmine shook her head, bewildered. "I'm only looking…" She trailed off, staring at the woman's serene features. "Do I know you?"

The woman's tittering laughter struck a sour chord in her mind. "The heat must be playing tricks on you; I would remember if such a beautiful young woman had visited my humble cart before. You should hurry and find your daughter before something dreadful happens to her! These streets are too dangerous for such a young girl to be wandering all on her own…"

Jasmine backed away cautiously and turned on her heel, setting off at a run once more. She did not look back at the woman, bothered by the vague knowledge that was just out of reach in her mind, and tried to focus on finding the girl. The sound of weeping reached her ears suddenly, loud and close by. The child was beyond the next corner. She made a sharp turn down a new street and found herself at an abrupt dead end. The walls cast much deeper shadows than elsewhere, and she turned quickly to leave.

But to her shock, she only found another wall. She was fenced in on all four sides, immersed in steadily growing darkness. The crying had ceased, and the noise of the marketplace dimmed rapidly until all she heard was a deep pit of silence, caving in all around her.

"No…" she whispered. She whirled, pounding her fists against the walls in futile desperation. "Let me out!"

The soft laughter of the mysterious woman returned, growing in volume on all sides as if it were part of the air itself.

"As I said, Princess Jasmine…"

The voice was laced with malice. Jasmine gasped as two slitted eyes appeared in the darkness before her.

"These streets are too dangerous…"

"How…" She steeled herself and stood straighter, determined to face the goddess without cringing away. She had run right into a trap, but she would not give Mirage the satisfaction of seeing her fear. "How did you—"

The cat goddess cackled as she materialized fully, her long crimson dress flowing behind her. "How did I steal you from right under the nose of your latest loyal protector? I have my ways."

Jasmine bristled as Mirage sauntered near, her glowing eyes savoring the sight of her trepidation.

"The spell he cast over you was a poor defense, naturally…men simply don't understand that there are layers in a woman's heart deeper than love for a man. The roots of maternal instinct are strong, easily stronger than the shallow blooms of sickly romance," she said lightly. "But you were enjoying your dream, weren't you? I'm sorry I had to interrupt your little fantasy. Ah well, there's always next time, isn't there?"

Her eyes gleamed as her feline mouth curved in a wicked smile. "Or maybe there isn't."

"Why are you doing this?" Jasmine said, then realized how foolish she sounded. It was pointless to even ask. She raised her chin defiantly. "You won't win, Mirage. Mozenrath will find me."

The goddess laughed in genuine amusement this time. "Mozenrath, not Aladdin? I never thought you would replace the street rat so quickly! But it just goes to prove my point: love is weak."

Jasmine opened her mouth in protest but could say nothing, suddenly struck by how different she must seem to her enemy. Mirage had always identified her primarily as Aladdin's princess, hadn't she? Yet she had all but forgotten him now, and he did not even know where she was. He would not be fighting for her this time; she would have to wait for a dark sorcerer to find her instead.

"Yes, you know I am right, Princess. Though it annoys me just a bit that that upstart sorcerer was the one to teach you that lesson, not I. No matter, you're _my_ prisoner now. And there's nothing that your new…hero…can do about it."

She spread her arms lazily and the walls around them disappeared. The darkness spread and condensed into solid figures, revealing an enormous sphinx-like structure that loomed behind them, its massive paws surrounding them on either side. Jasmine shielded her eyes from the bright flash of fire as two giant torches lit up the darkness. The black space around them seemed to stretch on endlessly, scattered with glittering dust and drifting boulders.

"Welcome to Morbia, a magical realm where mortals' dreams come true…the bad ones, that is," she said with sinister delight. With a dramatic sweep of her arm, the torches flared once more, the fires taking on distinct feline shapes. Jasmine stepped back in fear when one of the fiery cats leaped down gracefully beside Mirage, purring contentedly as the goddess stroked its head. "My dear pets welcome you as well, especially this one. After all, it is because of him that I was even able to invite you here."

The cat leered at her with bright green eyes; the flames seemed to lick faster around its body as it sensed her fear. Jasmine remembered what Genie had told her. These creatures thrived off fear. She had to stand firm and fight the terror that had seized her. And she had to believe that Mozenrath would come for her soon.

But as the goddess' smile of calculation widened into one of smug victory, she felt something inside her falter. After only two days of relief, she was once again trapped in a Mirror of illusions that would not let her out until it had broken her.

"You know, Princess, one of the most delightful things about being a goddess of illusions is I only do half the work," she said with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. "The mortal imagination is such an intriguing labyrinth. My job is just to unlock all the hidden doors."

She extended one delicate hand, and the air around her suddenly shifted, her mind seemingly jarred out of her body for a split-second. The cat goddess and the brilliant torches were suddenly far away from her, as if she had been thrown backward into the embrace of the sphinx, and before she could even think to run, a solid stone wall crashed down in front of her, sealing her in darkness.

She stumbled back, arms flailing as she barely stopped herself from falling. The dust from the new wall settled in a shower of whispering echoes, and the faint scent of burning reached her nostrils. The air began to glow dim orange, illuminated by torches scattered along the walls.

She turned and found that the hall split off in three directions. The seamless pattern of earthen bricks in the walls seemed to run on forever, interspersed by flames. She looked back once again at the wall that had sealed her in, pushing against it in the futile hope that she could somehow still escape. The wall did not budge. One hand clenched into a fist, knuckles scraping against the rough surface.

"God, give me strength," she whispered, afraid to even break the ominous silence around her. "Please…"

She slid slowly down to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself. She would wait for Mozenrath. He would save her. He had to.

Click.

The crisp noise echoed in the still air. She raised her head in tense apprehension, sensing something behind her, down one corridor.

Click click click.

She scrambled to her feet, backing away from the quickening echoes, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest. It sounded like sharp claws tapping against stone.

One of the torches down the hall suddenly fell under a shadow, and she looked up at the ceiling in deepening horror. There was something moving on the ceiling.

She made out a vague dark shape extending its angular limbs, wreathed in shadows as it paused and seemed to turn its grotesquely shaped head in her direction. She froze at the sound of the low rumble in its throat.

Click click click click clickclickclick

She stifled a scream as she turned and ran, one hand clamped tightly over her mouth as the other slammed painfully into the rough surface of the wall, scraping the skin off the back of her hand.

Even in its frantic, terrified race, her heart was losing against the now maniacal rhythm of the creature's claws, drawing ever nearer behind her, almost above her head on the ceiling. She did not look back, forcing her sore legs to run even faster on adrenaline and desperation.

And she felt her heart lurch into her stomach as the corridor ahead seemed to come to an abrupt end. Panic exploded in her veins, fueling her on despite the utter hopelessness of her predicament. She was going to die.

As she slammed up against the wall, the tattoo of the monster's claws began to slow, as if it knew its prey was cornered. She refused to look back, panting hard as she turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek against the rough bricks.

Her eyes widened when she saw the thin opening on the left side of the wall. It was a narrow passage, as if it had once been a wide corridor but had almost been forced closed. She dove toward it, managing to squeeze her body in between the two walls, the air pressed out of her at once as she inched into the crevice. The clicks increased in volume and frequency once more; the creature was close, having just missed her escape. The dry clicks were replaced by an angry, drawn-out grating of claws against stone.

She continued to inch away from danger, praying that it could not get through or find her through another route. After another second of frantic struggle she stumbled into the open space of another hallway, collapsing onto her knees. She willed her terror-stricken heart to slow down before it burst. Her blood pounded loudly in her ears, drowning out the slow crackle of the torches lining the walls.

She took several deep breaths, listening carefully for any sound of the monster trapped behind her, and heard nothing. It was as if it had vanished altogether. She swallowed nervously; would it be back for her? Would it find her again somehow? What kind of creature was it exactly?

She shuddered; perhaps it was best not to know. She stood up shakily, bracing herself against the hard wall, and looked ahead. Another doorless corridor that stretched on into the darkness. Walking forward slowly, she asked herself honestly if she thought she would survive.

This was the second time in two days that she was on the verge of losing her life. But yesterday Mozenrath had stepped in before any harm could have come to her. Now, she was alone and defenseless.

She swallowed the dry lump in her throat, trying to breathe more freely, trying desperately to believe that there was a way out. If Mozenrath didn't come for her in time, she would just have to find it on her own. She had survived countless disasters and brushes with death before. Even the Mirror of Fiereve hadn't beaten her in the end. She had to think of this new nightmare as another trial.

Illusions. Mirage was a goddess of illusions. She fed off her fear. Jasmine could not let her fear get the better of her.

She touched the back of her injured hand briefly and winced at the sting of pain across the skinless flesh. This was not the same as the Mirror; she was not immune to physical harm.

She tried to imagine what Mozenrath would do in her situation. He would have his mastery of magic and extensive knowledge of his enemy's abilities at his disposal, along with his natural confidence and poise. He would not be afraid. Or rather, he would master his fear.

She would have to as well.

The familiar sound of weeping reached her ears, echoing faintly from some unseen place ahead. She drew back, immediately on guard. It was the young girl from the marketplace. She still could not place her voice and her thin frame, but she was certain she knew her.

She bit her lip in worry as she glanced at the wall behind her. There was nowhere to go but forward. She took several tentative steps toward the source of the crying. It somehow penetrated the thick shell of fear that was suffocating her and tugged at her heart. The poor girl sounded so sad and lost.

She shook her head, trying to clear her head. This had to be an illusion, just like in her dream.

But the child was not running away this time. Jasmine could see her small form up ahead, sitting on the floor with her back turned to her, thin arms curled around her knees and her little head hung in sorrow.

"I want to go home…Mama, where are you…"

She froze at the child's broken voice, suddenly wondering if perhaps the girl had been lured here just like she had. She sounded real. Her slight frame cast a shadow under the light; her long black hair blanketed her shoulders like a shawl. Jasmine could see the fine texture of her hair now as she moved closer.

"Mama…"

Jasmine bit her lip harder as she wracked her brain, trying to figure out where she had heard her strangely familiar voice.

"It's okay…" she said softly, chancing to make her presence known. She stopped an arm's distance from the girl, and hesitated for a second before crouching down slowly, keeping her balance poised and ready to run in case it was a trick. But if the girl were real? She had to help her, and find out who she was. "It's okay. We'll both get out of here."

"But the monsters…" The girl sniffled, not turning around still. Her little fingers clutched her hair tightly as if trying to block out her own nightmares. "The monsters are after me."

Jasmine frowned. The girl had not responded the way she had expected, in surprise or relief that there was another human being here with her. She could not be real. Jasmine said nothing else and backed away cautiously. Sudden dread filled her as she realized she would have to walk past the girl in order to move on. Would she—or it—allow her to do that?

Jasmine stood still, now afraid to move or even speak. She waited with bated breath as the girl continued in a soft, somber tone.

"He's gone. He's gone, Mama…"

The girl stood slowly and wiped the tears from her cheek with one dirtied sleeve. Then she straightened up and turned around.

"You left him."

Jasmine screamed. The girl had no face.

She stumbled back from the ghastly apparition until her shoulder hit the wall. She looked backward, dreading that she was boxed in by walls once more, but lost her balance on the edge of a gaping hole that had appeared in the floor. She could not catch herself before she fell, feet slipping over the precipice, and plunged into complete darkness. She dropped like a stone, free-falling without any sense of what lay at the bottom of the hole or if she could even survive the landing.

She hit something pliable but hard enough to knock the wind out of her with jarring force. In a brief moment of disorientation she felt she was back in the Mirror, released by the quicksand into a new memory.

The bright stars slowly cleared from her vision, and she found herself in a dim room, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering in through the windows. She felt a hard mattress beneath her aching, trembling body, and all but collapsed in incoherent weeping, pressing her face against the sheets and hugging herself tightly. She just wanted to curl up and disappear, to escape the grave reality of this illusionary world Mirage had thrown her into. She had not even been here for an hour, and she was already teetering on the edge of insanity.

How long would it be before she broke beyond repair? Could Mozenrath find her before she lost herself entirely?

She slowly lifted her head, taking in her dim surroundings with cautious eyes, and saw that she was in a modestly sized bedroom. It was completely bare of furniture except for the bed she had fallen onto. She craned her neck up, expecting to find a gaping hole, but saw a smooth, unbroken ceiling instead. The moon was visible through the solitary window in one of the walls.

She sat up shakily, still clasping her arms, wondering where she was. It was not a room in the palace. And she had not explored the Citadel enough to know if such a room existed there.

"Jasmine," a voice said roughly.

She whirled around, her injured hand burning as she drew it across the sheets too quickly. She gasped as she saw Mozenrath at the edge of the bed, dragging himself toward her. The bloody gashes from his battle with Mirage still remained on his bare chest. She scrambled away from him as he reached for her, a desperate expression twisting his features. She had never seen him like this. Her heart pounded faster as she saw he was completely naked. He would never expose himself to her like this. Not crawling on his stomach and groping blindly for her as a man dying in the desert.

"Come here," he rasped.

Her back hit a bedpost and she shifted to the side frantically, escaping the grasp of his fingers as he pulled himself nearer to her. She almost tumbled off the bed, but he caught her with one arm, skeletal fingers digging into the skin of her back as he dragged her toward him. She cried out in pain and fear at the look on his face; a dark, animal hunger was burning in his eyes as a fire crackling through its last piece of timber.

"Get off of me!" she snapped, pushing away from him with all her might. His grip on her waist only tightened.

He pulled her toward him, his lips meeting hers in a brutal kiss as he crushed her to the mattress. She tried to scream, to yell at him to stop, but he was smothering her, cutting off her breath.

"It ends right now," he said brusquely against her lips. The intense fury in his voice sent her spiraling even faster down into a pit of dread. "You have to make it end, do you understand that?"

She stared at him, bewildered, still trying to claw her way free. She kicked at him with one leg, but he slammed her head against the bedpost, filling her vision with bursts of stars. She reeled, her head lolling to the side under the force of his mouth as his tongue trailed hungrily down her neck. The sharp tips of his right hand were tearing at her pants. He let out a growl of frustration and lifted her legs, tugging them off completely in one rough motion.

She shrieked and kicked at him again, almost breaking free before he caught her and turned her onto her stomach.

"Stop!" she screamed, struggling with all her might. She kicked up with one leg and managed to deliver a glancing blow to his face. He drew away from her temporarily, snarling. "Why are you doing this?! "

"Don't you understand yet," he gritted out, moving over her and pinning her down with the weight of his body. She could not even cringe from the feel of the wet blood on his chest smearing across her back. "I don't have time for games anymore. I don't have time, period."

"You can't. Not like this. Not like this!" she shouted, still trying desperately to throw him off of her. Tears stung at her eyes as he dealt her another ringing blow.

"Too late," he said harshly. "We've both run out of time."

She shut her eyes, unable to believe what was happening, that he could do this to her, whether he was real or not. In a last attempt to break free, she drove her elbow backward into his side, and suddenly his grip on her slackened.

When he lay atop her again, his body was limp, drained of strength. His hands grabbed at her arms feebly, drawing scratches down her skin. She turned immediately and shoved him off of her, thanking all the forces that might still be watching over her for this unexpected mercy.

She scrambled off the bed, putting as much distance between them as possible. He had collapsed on his stomach, hardly able to raise his head, his pale face twisted in a grimace of pain. He moved halfway into a kneeling position before he fell onto his right side, screaming in pain as the bones of his arm dug into his flesh.

He craned his neck up to look at her, mouth forming a hateful sneer, and his hands twisted in the sheets as he tried to lunge for her. But she was too far away; he only fell halfway off the bed, and she heard the sickening crack of something breaking.

His left arm dangled limp at his side, twisted at an odd angle. He looked up at her again, and she gasped in horror. The skin of his face was beginning to droop, sallow wrinkles creasing his forehead and the perpetually dark area under his eyes. His hateful eyes seemed to grow larger in their sockets as his entire body began to shrivel at an alarming rate, the skin sagging as lean muscle wasted away into thin bone. The bandage on his right shoulder soon came loose and fell to the floor, revealing an ugly mass of veins and tendons that were already beginning to putrefy.

Before she could vomit from the grotesque sight, she made a dash for the door, keeping well out of his reach. She did not look back as she yanked open the door and ran outside, not caring where it led.

"Jasmi—!"

She slammed the door behind her and ran in the first direction she could see, not stopping to catch her breath. She noticed that she was no longer half-naked; her clothing had been replaced. She stumbled on the train of her long dress, forced to slow down under the weight of all the layers of fabric surrounding her skin.

That was not him. It was an illusion. She shuddered and clenched her teeth, trying to bite back the relentless sobs in her throat, tears flowing freely from her eyes and dripping down to adorn the new dress she was wearing.

Mirage had said that half of this nightmare was her own doing, the unlocked doors deep in her consciousness, harboring monsters that had never seen the light of day. Yes, she had long feared that Mozenrath would hurt her, even kill her, but had not imagined he would violate her in such a way. But she still did not trust him fully. That must have been the opening the goddess needed to generate such a horrifying illusion. Jasmine gritted her teeth in frustration, realizing just how little control she had over her own mind. She did not know how to master fear. She had not even explored the depths of her mind where her fears truly lay.

Her skin was beginning to flush hotly under the folds of her long dress. She slowed down further, constricted by the fabric wrapped tightly around her shoulders and arms. Looking down, she paused at the sight of its pure white color and gold lining. The dress flowed down to the floor, covering her feet. She touched her hair tentatively; there were flowers pinned behind her ears, joined with a long cloth that extended down her back.

The realization of what kind of ceremonial wear this was sank in. Genie, of all people, had suggested that she wear this for her wedding, claiming it was the fashion of the future.

She had to step back once more in dread and surprise as she looked up and saw that the walls and ceiling were sliding away from each other, the corridor expanding rapidly into a vast, domed hall. The air began to lighten, the dim orange hue brightening to the natural white of sunlight.

Hundreds of unmoving figures materialized slowly out of thin air. They were wedding guests, dressed in the finest robes from their own kingdoms, exotic colors and exquisite fabrics blending together in the denseness of the crowd. All of them were all facing forward, away from her. No one moved.

She realized she was standing directly at the end of the narrow path that parted the crowd in two. Her feet caught on the carpet as she made to step back. But as she turned, she saw that the two tall doors of this specially built pavilion were shut securely behind her. Her eyes darted to the front of the room, where carpeted steps led to an elaborately decorated platform, strewn with flower petals and hung with ornamented drapes.

There was a man clad in an off-white turban and elegant robes standing alone on one side of the platform. Still and unblinking, he faced the expectant crowd, gaze riveted in her direction.

Aladdin.

The vast hall was frozen in time, waiting for the royal wedding to commence. She took several even breaths and walked forward cautiously, eyes leaving her fiancé to glance at the crowd around her. Courtiers, nobles, advisors, foreign dignitaries, and their personal friends stood still and silent around her, their pleasant smiles rigid and unnatural in their suspended state.

She could hear only the slide of her feet against the carpet as she walked the length of the hall, turning apprehensively toward the man who waited in equal silence for her on the platform. She passed her father, whose hand was frozen below one sadly smiling eye, about to wipe away a tear of joy at seeing his only daughter finally married. She noticed Genie as well, strangely quiet and motionless, giving the groom a wink and a thumbs up from behind a row of dignitaries. Abu and Iago stood on either shoulder, grinning in earnest. Jasmine noticed the gleam of gold in the monkey's vest with a small smile.

Her smile faded as she turned back toward her fiancé, the man who was now waiting to start a new life with her. She walked hesitantly up the steps, still on guard for any signs of danger or illusionary creatures. Nothing stirred.

She approached slowly, staring at his handsome face. His glowing smile sent a pang of remorse through her. He was completely unaware of all that had transpired and changed in the past few weeks, how much she had changed, and how she had all but forgotten him and fallen for another man. It was unfair. He was still waiting for her.

She paused as she noticed a gauzy layer of something that was not cloth attached to the side of his turban. Drawing closer, she peered at it, not yet daring to touch him.

There were cobwebs on his clothing.

She covered her mouth before she could make a sound. Forcing herself to look at him more closely, she saw that his face was actually coated in a fine layer of dust.

She backed away down the stairs, trying not to tremble or falter, suddenly afraid to look at any of the hundreds of people crowded around her. The carpeted path seemed narrower than before as dread began to sink in, the knowledge that they were frozen for eternity. She felt claustrophobic, cornered by the press of bodies, though none of them moved. Her imagination spawned a chilling image of their pleasant, frozen expressions suddenly whipping toward her with sinister smiles.

Swallowing hard, she turned and broke into a run, her heart beginning its familiar race again as she wondered in increasing panic how she could get out of here. The doors loomed ahead, their ornate handles glistening under the sunlight from the windows.

She broke through the end of the crowd at last, and to her relief everything was still frozen in place. She reached the door, already panting, and pulled down on one handle as hard as she could, then jerked her hand back almost violently when it brushed the sickening silk of cobwebs.

Clenching her jaw, she placed her hand on the handle once again, determined not to let the pervasive feel of decay throw her from her purpose. She would get herself out. She had to.

The door would not open. She tugged harder, praying silently for an escape.

Click.

Her body went rigid, breath halting halfway down her throat at the dreaded sound. The vastness of the hall magnified the sinister echoes that originated from the high vaulted ceiling, sending a helpless chill of terror down her spine. She dared not turn around or look up, resuming her frantic attempts to open the door.

"God…God…please," she whispered, resisting the fearful paralysis that threatened to take hold of her.

Click. Click. Click.

It was taking its time now, seeing it had her trapped. She clenched her teeth, choking down a scream as she made a mad dash along the wall, eyes riveting on the nearest high window. Bright sunlight filtered through the cobwebs stretched across the glass panes, casting distorted shadows on the floor. She might just barely reach the window if she jumped. But as the tapping of claws on stone draw nearer, she amended that thought; she had to reach the window. She had no other choice.

Eyes focused on her target, she ran at full speed toward it, leaping as high as she could in the restrictive dress, and latched her hands onto the sill. She gasped in pain as her body slammed into the wall, the impact threatening to break her hold. But her fingers held fast, arms straining to pull her body up over the ledge.

She had no time for prayers or fearful screams. With one forceful heave she swung one leg up onto the sill, the other following quickly. A shadow fell over her, darkening the light from outside the window, just as she slammed her fist into the glass.

It cracked under the uncontrolled force of her strike, and she threw her full weight into the window, shattering it completely and carrying her body through the jagged opening into open sunlight.

She heard the monster slam heavily down onto the sill behind her as she fell out of the pavilion in a shower of broken glass. There was a screech of claws against stone, and she inadvertently caught a glimpse of its hulking shadow. It looked half-human, half-animal, hunched over the smashed remains of the window and reaching with one lanky arm to rake its sharp claws down the frame of the opening.

She was falling far and fast, the sunlight around her dimming suddenly into darkness more complete than any area she had experienced thus far in this labyrinth. The window shrank rapidly from view, and the shadow of the beast blended into the growing blackness within seconds. She let out the breath she had been holding and exhaled in a half-sob. She felt her body slowing down in its descent, as if some invisible force in the air were slowly cushioning her fall.

She came to a stop without hitting anything solid. Landing on her feet, she looked around in trepidation, ready for anything. Though she had just narrowly escaped once again, that was no reason to be any more confident in her chances of survival. She was completely at the mercy of her enemy, and she had the sick feeling that the goddess was nowhere near done toying with her yet. At this rate, she did not know how long it would be before she cracked completely.

A wave of confusion suddenly washed through her mind. She stumbled to the side, holding her head. She felt her consciousness wane and sharpen in a bewildering pattern, and she shut her eyes at the nausea curdling her senses. It felt as if reality were turning inside out, the very fabric of the air warping irreparably and drawing her into some unknown realm.

An intense feeling of déjà vu immersed her in a memory that was all too familiar. She opened her eyes to darkness, disoriented and on edge, and groped for the edge of her bed. She found there was no bed.

1.

"Good evening, Princess."

She froze, not daring to speak, as if any word or movement would confirm that she had indeed been thrown back in time.

She fought the instinct to panic and held still this time, not flailing her arms around madly as she had on that first fateful night.

The cold, feather-light touch of leather on her arm made her flinch.

"You're not him," she said warily, backing away.

He merely chuckled in response. She still could not identify where he was. And here in the pervasive darkness, there was nowhere to run.

"You want me to let you out of here, don't you?"

She tried to inject as much confidence into her voice as possible. She had to slice through the illusion with cold logic and not lose sight of reality. "I want _Mirage _to let me out of here."

"Mirage isn't here," he said coolly. "This is all you, Princess. But who ever said that what's in your mind isn't real?"

She narrowed her eyes at the unseen figure of the illusory sorcerer.

"I did. You're not real."

He laughed coldly. "Reality is such an ambiguous term. I'm surprised that lesson hasn't sunk in yet."

The hairs on the back of her neck rose in heightened tension as she had the distinct feeling he was circling her slowly as a predator around cornered prey. He spoke again, his voice closer than before, and she fought the urge to turn in his direction.

"Thirty days," a whisper sounded beside her ear. She jumped, clenching her hands into fists to keep from shaking. "In thirty days everything will be mine—everything that you hold dear."

He paused behind her, and she tensed as his hands settled on her arms just below her shoulders. She shut her eyes at the chill of anticipation that ran down her spine as his fingers trailed lightly across her skin.

"But it hasn't even taken that long, has it," he breathed. "I took everything you held dear by _becoming_ everything you held dear."

"Not everything," she said. "You'll never have everything."

She abruptly stopped talking as she realized she had unwittingly begun to believe the illusion was real. She had to fight it. The real Mozenrath was on his way to find her and get her out of this nightmare.

He brushed aside her assertion, hands still stroking her arms in slow torture. "In this place, I'm as real as you are. Which makes for some fun, doesn't it?"

He pulled her back against his body, easily breaking her resistance with his greater strength. He drew one arm across her waist, trapping both her arms at her sides, while the other moved up to caress her jawline. She stood still, her eyes closing tighter as he lowered his head to her shoulder, his face brushing her cheek. He inhaled in contentment, as if savoring the scent of her fear.

"Let me go," she whispered, voice strained.

"That's the last thing you want," he chuckled against her skin, his gloved hand drawing slow circles across her abdomen. "Be honest with yourself, Princess. Didn't I tell you that quite early in this little game?"

"You're not him," she said more firmly, breaking the inertia that had paralyzed her body. She tried to free herself from his intoxicating touch. "You're not—"

"Well, if you insist on playing that way," he said, keeping his grip on her, "we can each pretend the other isn't real. That might make for even more fun, actually."

His voice drew down to a dark whisper. "You can do anything you want to me. Any of those fantasies you've kept locked inside, those dreams that just began seeping through that rigid moral shell…after all, if I'm not real, what's to stop you?"

Her body ceased its struggles at his sinuous words; the conflict was entirely in her mind now. He was right. The inside of the human mind was a truer reality than what lay outside the body.

"And you've wanted to hurt me as well, for all that you've lost, the steep price you've had to pay on my behalf. Nothing's keeping you from your revenge."

She reeled as his hands began to explore her body, repeating the haze of desire from the dream that had led her into this illusion in the first place. With the last bit of her self-control she drove her elbow into his chest. His sharp gasp of pain was the first crack in his control over her. Taking advantage of the opening, she struggled free of one of his hands, trying to turn around so she could fight him directly.

He caught her wrists and forced them down to her sides viciously, and his cruel laugh echoed in tandem with her cry of pain.

"That's it, Princess. I knew you wouldn't surrender so easily. You're the most persistent opponent I know…that's why I chose you," he said with a smug grin. She could see him now in the darkness, the pale skin of his face standing out against the shadows. He abruptly crushed her to him and covered her lips with his own in a brutal mockery of a kiss. She immediately jerked back, kicking at his legs, trying to break his hold on her. She managed to wrest one hand free of his grip and brought it up to claw at his face. _This isn't him. This isn't him._

Her nails razed shallow scratches on one pale cheek, and she paused in surprise as he did not even flinch or retaliate. He merely laughed at the sight of her shock.

"That's it. Let it out. Let it all out," he said in an almost soothing tone. She stared at the trickle of blood on his face. He ignored it completely. "There is no stronger fire than hate. Well, I suppose there is love, but when you really think about it, they seem to be one and the same."

"You're sick," she spat, trying to push away from him. He tightened his grip on her, trying to encircle her waist with his gloved hand. She slapped him hard.

This time he did not pause to laugh or respond with a sadistic comment. Her vision exploded in stars as he dealt her a jarring backhand. Before she could stumble sideways, he caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him.

"I can play too, though."

She froze in utter terror at the flash of crisp blue in his eyes, the hollow hunger in his expression, absent of all humanity.

"You should have been named after another flower," he said with a dark smile. "I've always preferred roses."

His gauntlet glowed briefly as he raised it near her face. Then suddenly he released her, stepping back and breaking all contact.

Bewildered, she stepped back as well, only to trip and fall as her feet were suddenly bound together. She landed without impact in the darkness, and quickly tried to turn on her side to get up again. To her horror, she could not move her arms; they were tied down in the awkward posture she had landed in. She strained at her invisible bonds, staring in fear at the sorcerer who now stood gloating over her.

Every muscle in her body tensed at his dangerous proximity as he knelt beside her. He had her trapped, at his mercy; her eyes darted to his hands, dreading his touch.

But he did not touch her at all, merely smiling at her discomfort. "Pitiful looks very cute on you indeed. As do struggling and begging."

She turned her head away as far as possible from his face as he lowered his lips to her ear.

"Aren't you going to beg me to save you, to break this illusion?" he whispered. "I have the power to, you know."

"You're not real," she hissed.

"But this is the real me, Princess," he said plainly. "With all pretenses and manipulative civility stripped away, this is who I am. Or have you forgotten what the cost of the gauntlet fully entails?"

She tried to shut out the insinuations, the doubts he was forcing upon her mind. This frightening, heartless version of Mozenrath was a near perfect copy of Destane. She had caught onto that unsettling possibility before. In the Mirror, when he had joined his flesh to the cursed item of power for the first time, she had already begun to suspect how it would warp him into the likeness of his master. Then…the surprising kindness and honesty he had shown her in the past two days, what she had seen as genuine, natural—had that been the real act? Was his mask of cool cruelty and dark humor actually not a mask, but his true self?

The thought of such a reversal turned her stomach; she did not know what to believe. The man in this illusion was not Mozenrath's corporeal form. But what if he was part of Mozenrath, an essential element of his personality that she had so desperately wished did not exist?

"You were beginning to believe that I was a good man, weren't you? That maybe I could replace your noble street rat after all." He let out a condescending laugh. "Perfect."

He rose to his feet and stepped back, looking down at her with cold disdain. His gloved hand clenched into a loose fist and glowed briefly.

"You figured out only half of the plan, because as a typical princess, you allowed yourself to be blinded by emotion," he said flatly, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. "And though you are persistent, you are far from patient. Had you read more of the text concerning prohibitions, you might have realized that theories of magic are not storybook tales with romantic endings. Love, like any other human power or weakness, is to be exploited to the utmost of its utility. Power is not free. But you know what is?"

He grinned slowly as she did not answer, still savoring her helplessness and feeble front of courage.

"Fear."

His laughter echoed softly around her as he retreated into the darkness and disappeared. A deep, hollow silence crept into her bones as she lay there immobile, still bound by invisible chains to an invisible surface. With her remaining resolve she quieted the sound of her own breathing, counting the seconds between each blink of her eyes, waiting with dread for whatever nightmare might materialize next.

The next time she blinked, she heard it again.

Click.


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Death.

She did not ask if this was still an illusion. There was no clear definition of reality anymore. But the one certainty of all life, of all reality, was now coming for her, as steadily as the downward flow of a cursed hourglass.

Click click click.

She shut her eyes, seeing nothing but feeling everything. She felt strangely more alive than ever before, as if she knew the location of each vein and artery in her body, blood pumping continuously through her strong heart even though it would soon be spilled like water from a punctured canteen. Every inch of her skin tingled from contact with the air, though there was no breeze. Each blink of her eyes and breath that passed through her lips were timed.

Click.

The sound stopped right above her. She opened her eyes to darkness, still seeing nothing, but knew that her death was suspended in a second's fall.

She felt the rush of air as it dropped toward her.

She glimpsed a grotesque, monstrous face twisted in a vicious sneer, inches away from her eyes, and could not even scream in the split-second before the end.

But in the next moment there was the resounding thud of two bodies colliding, and she felt another breeze as the monster's trajectory changed, its barbaric form crashing down beside her with a snarl of surprise.

"Jasmine!"

A warm, calloused hand grabbed her wrist, and she heard the snapping of rope under quick slices of a blade. She was free. Her rescuer jerked her to her feet before pushing her away forcefully and plunging his blade downward into the monster just recovering from its fall beside them. Its unearthly scream pierced the darkness like a flock of carrion birds, sending terrifying echoes in all directions. Jasmine shrieked and covered her ears, barely able to keep standing.

He grabbed her by the hand and they were running, gaining speed in the blindness of adrenaline and panicked determination. The desperate will to live reentered her veins with a new vigor. She was going to make it out. She was going to live.

"A…Alad…din?" His name was breathless on her lips, unbelievable, as she nearly stumbled on the folds of her dress.

"I'm here," the man running beside her said, and she caught a glimpse of his determined face before he surged ahead, still gripping her hand tightly and half-dragging her behind him.

"Y…you…how did you…"

"Genie and Carpet are waiting outside. We have to move!" he said tightly, not nearly as breathless as she. She saw confidence and relentless focus in his every movement, sharp and fluid sharp at the same time, bare feet cutting lightly across the invisible surface beneath them. He was determined to get them both out of there as soon as possible, even as another keening chorus of monstrous shrieks sounded behind them, followed by a low growl of fury.

The pounding of the creature's steps behind them filled her ears, magnified by her own heartbeat and failing breaths. She fought against the burn in her lungs and limbs, forcing herself to continue on, to follow the man she had left behind, who had now come back for her.

Somehow she caught up to him and they were running side by side, hands clasped tightly together with no intention of letting go. The darkness began to fade around them, and she could see the corridor of sanded brick and torches that stretched on ahead. At the end of it there was an open square of space leading to the front of the sphinx. The faint twinkle of stars against a dark night sky was just visible through the opening.

She screamed and ducked as the monster slammed its claws into the rock right behind her and began running sideways along the wall, heading straight for her. She heard the sharp whistling sound of claws rending the air right behind her back as it swiped and missed.

"Don't look back!" Aladdin shouted. He brought the sword up in his left hand but did not hinder their breakneck pace, and she glanced at him with a terrified plea, begging him to save them somehow, to kill the nightmarish creature that would devour them both.

Setting his mouth in a grim line, he shifted her fingers in his hand, ready to let go. She grasped his hand even more tightly, terrified at the thought of going on alone.

"No, don't let go, don't let go Aladdin please please don't…!"

"Jasmine, you have to trust me!" he said urgently, and moved closer to her, toward the monster that was gaining on them, shrieking its imminent victory in her ears.

He slowed down infinitesimally, just enough to slip his right shoulder behind her left, and gave her a firm push forward to boost her speed. She ran on heedlessly for one second, her hand now empty, but whirled around in time to see him swing the sword clean across the monster's misshapen, powerful arms, spraying dark liquid into the ceiling and walls. She almost fell to the ground under its scream of pain and fury. Her eyes were helplessly drawn to its hulking dark form, hunched protectively over its wounded arms, snarling at the human who had managed to injure it. Aladdin took a cautious step back, brandishing the bloodied sword, balancing lightly on his feet like the seasoned fighter he was. The beast rose then to its full height, its demonic aura suddenly flaring like a living disease through the air, the shock wave from its sickening power knocking him backward onto the floor. She felt the aftershock of the blast as well, stumbling backward but managing to keep on her feet.

"Aladdin!" she screamed, running back toward him. "Get awa—"

Her words were cut off by her own shriek of horror as the creature swiped one bleeding arm around Aladdin's torso, hooking around his back and drawing him toward its distended form in the bizarre semblance of an embrace. With a strike of its claws the sword in his left hand clattered uselessly to the floor.

"No! No!!!"

She fell to her knees as it slammed Aladdin's head against the wall with a sickening crack, curtailing his struggles with one blow. She could not bring her eyes away from it then as it lowered its head to his throat and opened its jaws wide.

And then suddenly she was flying through the air, sprawled across a soft fabric surface. One tassel of the magic carpet brushed her arm lightly as if in reassurance, but she only gripped its edges and screamed harder.

"No! Take me back! Save him! Save him, Carpet!"

The walls swept by her in a dizzying blur as the carpet gained speed, rejecting her desperate pleas even as her eyes riveted on the rapidly diminishing figure of the monster hunched over her beloved's limp body. From a distance, the clearest thing she could see was blood. Stark, vicious, red blood.

The open night air hit her skin as soon as Carpet flew out of the labyrinth, and she wailed as if she were the one dying, seeing none of the stars that sparkled all around them or the giant twin flames of the torches at the entrance. She saw only red.

Her fingers gripped the fabric of the carpet tightly, furiously, wrenching it back to make it slow down, to make it turn around somehow, even though she knew her friend would not allow her to go back and die.

"Aladdin…Al…addin…" she sobbed, curling into a ball, fingers still clutching the soft fabric.

The carpet suddenly swerved, nearly throwing her off with the abrupt maneuver. The long folds of her dress cascaded over the side and dragged her dangerously close to the edge. And then something snatched the carpet right from under her, and she plummeted to the hard ground of the sphinx's platform once again. With the wind knocked out of her, she was forced to lie still for several seconds before she could try to stand.

She rose slowly, shakily, feeling as if her life was all but squeezed out of her, and turned to face the grinning cat goddess who stood with the magic carpet hanging limp in her clawed hands. Its bottom edge was burning with orange flame.

"Going somewhere?" Mirage said with slow delight.

"You…" she stuttered, breathing hard, feeling all the hate and fear and murdered hope boil together into an unrecognizable fire inside her. "You monster!"

She rushed toward the goddess, not caring that she had no weapon and no strength to match the fire within her. She had to kill this evil, evil creature, this inhuman thing that had trapped her in the deepest level of hell.

But she stumbled on the folds of her dress and fell forward, losing her breath once again from the jarring impact. She heard the low cackle of the goddess as she raised her head, only to feel one dainty shoe come to rest on top of her skull and push it back down to the floor, slowly applying pressure until her cheek scraped painfully against the rocky ground. She tried to swipe at the goddess with her nails, but the weight suddenly disappeared on its own. In the next second her vision went black from a vicious blow to her head.

"Still feisty, hm?" The offhand remark floated down to Jasmine's ears as if from a far distance.

Her mind was a haze now, swirling in muddled images, but still red. So much red. She felt tears stinging at the broken skin on her face, tears of pain, anger, loss, sorrow, fear, too many things to count. She was helpless. She was helpless, and Aladdin was dead, and Carpet was dead, and Genie…

"Kill or capture; the classic villain's dilemma," the goddess said with a triumphant laugh. "I prefer to strike a balance."

She leaned down close to Jasmine's broken, battered body, and whispered in her ear. "Your hero—one of them, at least—made delectable fodder for my latest pet. And your jinni—hah, semi-phenomenal indeed. An amusing toy for my firecats in their own lair. And you, my dear…oh, you are the most treasured prize of all. That was only the beginning of your fun in Morbia, Princess. The beginning."

Jasmine did not look up, utterly exhausted and defeated and dead. She was already dead, and it was only the beginning of a new nightmare. Perhaps she would go mad before long. Before she could meet the same fate as Aladdin had. Before she could mourn him in terrible guilt and pain for too long.

"Open your eyes. Don't want to miss round two. You're down one hero already."

Jasmine lay still as the sinuous cackle of the goddess echoed around her, reverberating around the walls.

Walls?

She forced herself to rise from the ground at last, to draw from the last trickle of strength inside her. She still breathed and moved. Life had not left her body yet, though it would be a mercy if it did. To die in peace was better than to live in hell.

She was back in the labyrinth. The open air of the outside of the sphinx had been replaced once more by claustrophobic walls lit eerily by torches, corridors stretching in several directions, all seemingly endless. She let out a sob and crumpled against the wall, sliding to her knees with her face in her hands.

Aladdin was dead.

Aladdin was dead.

Aladdin was dead.

She hugged herself tightly, curling up on the floor, willing herself to die with him. The floor was icy cold against her skin.

She looked down in sudden confusion, and saw that her garments had once again changed. She was now clad in billowing red pants and a diminutive top, the same outfit she had been forced to wear that fateful day Jafar had taken over the kingdom.

She stood unsteadily and rubbed her arms for warmth, feeling shock settle into her limbs and drag down her movements, pulling her mind toward a pit of unthinking madness. She would certainly go mad if this continued for just another hour. The confidence and determination at the core of her heart had already shattered. She was a mere toy here, tossed around for amusement, life stretched thin as strings of clay.

"Dance for me, Princess."

The unexpected, sinuous voice sent shivers down her spine. She turned toward the source in trepidation. The man was behind her.

She stumbled backward several steps, her injured hand bracing against the wall. She instinctively reached to hold her head as her temples throbbed, her mind burdened beyond capacity. And her fingers brushed the cool gold of the crown he had once bestowed upon her.

But the tall, sinister vizier was nowhere to be seen. There was only an empty corridor running endlessly in either direction. She whirled around several times, trying to find the voice.

"Go on…dance…"

The voice repeated its insinuating command, flowing over the air like overly sweet honey on molding bread. She swallowed fearfully and pressed her back against the wall, holding still. She closed her eyes and began to pray, began to wish fervently that there was a way out. She began to repeat to herself that this was not real.

"Dance…"

The whisper was harsher now, cruel, on edge. She tensed, terrified by what would happen to her next.

"I said dance."

The voice was downright malevolent, almost spitting out the words like poison. She cringed under its malice, a reed about to snap in a sandstorm.

"If you insist on stubbornness, then I will insist on force."

In the span of a second she felt her awareness and control of her body drain out of her, and she continued to stand only by the strength of an outside force holding her up like a doll with invisible strings.

"No…" she whispered, feeling her lips grow numb as well. "No…"

Her arms stretched slowly forward and up over her head, her wrists curving in a familiar posture that was entirely out of her control now.

Her feet moved of their own accord, sliding across the stone floor in carefully measured grace, and her hips began to sway, allowing the billowing pants she wore to slide down slowly, exposing the top of her hips.

"No…" she repeated, shutting her eyes.

"That's it, Princess…dance for me…"

She moved slowly as a marionette manipulated by expert hands, every inch of her body controlled by a tug of a string, creating a seamless blend of undulating hips and coyly twisting hands. There was no music, only the low sinister voice of the invisible man, speaking faster, growing in excitement at the sight of her enslaved seduction.

"Lovely…

"So very lovely."

She bit back a cry of shame as her own body betrayed her and slid slowly down upon the floor, continuing its dance of intimate taboo on a new level of depravity.

"Stop…" she whispered as her back arched in a show of mock passion. "Please stop…"

She rolled onto her back, her hips lifting suddenly in a seductive display as if pleased by an invisible lover. She shut her eyes once again, refusing to behold the slavery of her own limbs. Her heart pounded erratically in her chest, trying to fight the enforcement of an alien rhythm in her blood.

"Let it out, Princess…that beautiful voice…let it out…"

And she found she could no longer protest even with words as she lost control over her voice as well. She longed to cover her ears from the low, intimate sounds that issued forth from her throat, knowing they were not her own, only another flawless element in this sick dance before her unseen audience.

Tears flowed down the sides of her face as the smooth motions of her body broke nearly all remaining prohibitions of chastity and her own pride, the shame of helpless self-degradation burning through her veins. If Aladdin had not saved her that day…if Jafar's despotic reign had continued…how soon would it have come to this? She remembered the last wish Jafar thought he had made, how he had wanted total control of her mind and body. It would have been inevitable. She would have been his slave in every meaning of the word, whether through a wish on a lamp or through his own dark sorcery.

But here in this labyrinth of despair, there was no escape. This was a vast grave that buried all hope and light and willpower. All under the crushing force of illusions that were now reality. There was no difference.

She felt her body lift from the floor as if under a levitation spell, her back already slick with sweat from the exertions of her depravity, and hung limp in the air, exhausted and defeated. She could only wait for the voice to return, for her body to obey his next whim.

"You kept time quite well, Princess."

Her breaths were shallow, hitching with uncontrollable sobs, bleeding with fear and despair.

"But not well enough…perhaps you might better learn…"

The air around her shimmered and flared, and suddenly she could move again, dropping scarcely a foot to the floor and almost stumbling upon the unexpected impact. Her mind was too slow to register her freedom, however, and she remained in place, bewildered as curved walls of glass materialized around her, warping her view of the corridor outside.

She turned slowly, her own movements now foreign to her as if she were controlling another's limbs. Her hand brushed against the cool glass, and a powerful wave of déjà vu seized her senses. She froze. This was…

A trickle of sand fell upon her shoulders and flowed down to the floor in a quite rustle. She looked up with dread and saw the narrow neck of the hourglass, the near convergence of the glass walls that had trapped her once again. The nightmare that had haunted her for weeks following Jafar's defeat had returned, and it was real this time.

She pressed her back against the curve of the wall, avoiding the sand. She stared at the floor, at the small pile of fluorescent pink grains that was steadily growing each second. It flowed from the top compartment at an alarmingly fast rate. She could not take her eyes off its unnatural color.

Was this…was this how it felt for him?

To feel his life leak away bit by bit yet at a frighteningly fast pace, knowing his days were limited, aware of the exact time he would die?

She pounded her fists against the glass feebly, but her strength had long been depleted, leaving only a hollow shell to encase her weakening spirit.

She gave up and leaned back against the glass, slowly sliding down to sit and wait, allowing the sand to pour over the tips of her shoes. The pile would soon cover the floor. She closed her eyes.

"Let me tell you a story before you sleep, Princess."

His voice was right behind her, on the outside of the glass. She did not open her eyes.

"It is a story of a woman much like yourself."

She heard the slow tap of his footsteps as he began to trace the circumference of the hourglass.

"She was beautiful…beautiful in her maturity and elegance…the envy of all…

"She was kind…kind in compassion and beneficence to the people…an exemplar of grace…"

"She was strong…strong in will and mind…

"…but such are the vices of women."

Jasmine bit her lip to keep from weeping, but tears were already flowing down her cheeks, dripping onto the thin layer of sand that had crept up to the glass walls.

"She was too beautiful and too kind for her own good…but it was that last quality that sealed her fate. This world is merciless, not in the sense that it is obligated to show mercy…but in that it is a well-oiled system run by cold facts and laws, reality that cannot be challenged by any single mortal. She dared to challenge it…

"Suffice it to say she was put back in her place. With proper decorum, of course. Incurable illness…exhaustion from madness…one and the same, are they not?"

Jasmine covered her face in her hands, openly weeping now as the voice circled the walls of the hourglass slowly, now drifting from the opposite end. The sand was creeping up her legs, weighing down the thin material of her pants.

"She learned her lesson before she died. The harsh but necessary lesson that no one steps outside the system without sufficient power to create their own reality. No one breaks the rules unless they have a new set of them in mind, along with the power to enforce them. She had neither."

He stopped halfway around the hourglass, letting out an amused chuckle.

"She would have been proud to know you followed in her footsteps. She was an idealistic fool, blinded by pride just as much as any despotic tyrant, but shielded by her grace and beauty as a woman."

He continued on until he approached and stood right behind her; she still refused to look at him, her arms now curled around her knees, face buried in the fabric of her pants. The flow of the sand seemed to accelerate, covering up to her waist now, pouring from the aperture in a steady stream.

"So here is your lesson, Princess.

"Learn it well…before your time runs out."

She knew without turning around that he was no longer there. She was alone now, alone in a recurring nightmare that would not stop this time, a nightmare that would bury her in suffocating sands and seal her grave.

She stood slowly, the sand cascading off her pants, and found that it was already rising above her knees. She kept her eyes on the narrow opening, watching her life flow through it to scatter around her.

She leaned back against the cool glass and shut away the sight of the glowing sands that would soon engulf her completely. At least she would not die by the monster's hands. She would die peacefully, perhaps slowly and painfully, but without surprises or overwhelming fear.

She knew she had crossed over that thin line from sanity to madness when she began to hear music in her head.

It was a slow stringed song, wafting through her senses in a steady rhythm against the relentless stream of sand. She smoothed her hands over the rising surface, letting the grains run through her fingers in time.

Her tears ran down more slowly now, no longer in agitation, but in quiet mourning for everything she had lost and still would lose. She had failed. She had failed her kingdom, her father, her fiancé, and even the dark sorcerer who needed her to stay alive. She had not been able to save any of them; in the end, she was still the one who needed saving.

Perhaps Jafar was right. The world was merciless and bent to no one's will. It could only be changed, shattered, or molded by power. And she was powerless. Perhaps she had always been.

Images flew before her eyes with the quiet song of death threading through her mind. The first time she had been trapped like this, she had fought. She had fought so hard to escape, even when her strength had failed and she could hardly breathe under the pressure of the sand. She had reached for the glass even at the last second before she had gone completely under, begging to be saved. Expecting to be saved.

Somewhere along the line she had stopped expecting salvation. Stopped waiting for heroes and luck and fate to grace her with victory and continued health. Perhaps she had already taken the full measure of leniency allowed each mortal life, and now it was time to pay her debts. Nothing was free. Not power, not life, not even freedom itself.

The haunting song swelled toward a climax of soul-rending beauty. She bowed her head until her chin touched the sand, her arms already trapped by her sides. This was the end.

But on the last note of the song's pinnacle, the glass shattered.

Her arms shot out instinctively for balance as the glass disappeared and she fell backward. She was moving through sand that no longer constricted her, its coarse granules rapidly scattering from her body. It felt alien to have such freedom of movement again, to feel the air on her skin and hear her stumbling steps on the hard floor before she fell into the grasp of someone's arms.

"Jasmine."

She flinched away violently, panic shooting through her veins. There was no crunch of glass under her feet, no abrasive texture of sand. It had all vanished.

The apparition clad in blue and black reached for her, dark eyes alight with cold fire. The sight of his relentless gaze seized her with terror. The latest game would now begin. And it would likely end with the nightmarish creature descending upon her once again.

"No," she said, shaking her head, stepping back. "No…"

She turned and broke into a run, somehow still finding the strength for flight. She did not know where she was going, merely following the never-ending line of torches in front of her.

But he caught her in seconds, drawing her back as she kicked and screamed, struggling to be free, refusing to be trapped again.

She heard him shout her name as through a thick veil, drowned out by the sinister chorus of fearful memory. The monster's ominous steps returned, either in her head or in the echoes of the hallway; she could not be sure. The line between illusion and reality had long been shattered to pieces.

Cool leather covered her forehead, and she tried to jerk away from his grasp only to be held firmly in place by his other arm. She could no longer scream, reduced to pitiful sobs and incoherent pleas.

A slow wave of clarity washed through her senses as clean water over a muddied surface, and she felt her breathing slow, her heart no longer racing out of control. The tension seeped out of her in increments, and she went slack in his arms.

He removed his hand from her face and she collapsed, unable to stand on her own. He held her up with a grunt of effort, not letting go of her waist or her arms. She heard his voice clearly in her ear.

"You survived."

Relief and strain were mixed in his voice, throwing her into confusion once again. Was he…could it be him? Was he real this time?

He turned her slowly in his arms and let the wall behind her support part of her weight. He looked into her eyes with a sharp, searching gaze, perhaps trying to find something lucid, something other than madness and terror. Her breaths began to quicken again as he touched her face.

"You're free."

She froze at his cool statement, hit by a wave of sensory memory and cruel images of a bloodstained white dress and a woman's silent scream.

She waited helplessly for the blade to drive through her flesh, but felt only the leather of the gauntlet brushing her face.

"M…Moz…enrath…"

His grim expression tightened as she spoke his name. Was he real this time? A desperate prayer rang through her mind as he shifted her in his arms. He felt and sounded real. He looked every bit as real as she remembered. But who was he?

Would he kill her because his own time was running out, or for his own sadistic pleasure, as his master would have?

Panic shot through her when he tried to pull her away from the wall. A flash of crimson and a demonic howl entered her mind, rooting her feet to the ground. The creature was still here. It would find them. And it would take him from her as well. It had to be what Mirage intended in this second round of hellish torment.

Click click click.

She screamed and he caught her before she could sink to the ground in fear. He gripped her shoulders forcefully and stared into her frightened eyes, ignoring her frantic search for the source of the sound.

"It's here…it's here again…" she stammered, shivering in his grasp, not hearing his words. "It's here…"

"Jasmine. Jasmine!" he shouted, and finally broke through the barrier her mind had thrown up against the telltale sound of the monster's approach.

"It's here and I can't run away it killed him it killed Aladdin I can't—"

"Jasmine!" he roared, shaking her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. He held her in place with strong hands. "It's not real! It's all in your head. You have to fight it. There's nothing there. Mirage is fucking with your mind."

Click click clickclickclickclick

She closed her eyes as the tattoo quickened in a deafening crescendo, preparing herself for death. He did not understand; she had seen it before. She had seen its demonic form as it chased her and drove her to the limits of her sanity and over the edge at last. She had seen it kill. The splatter of Aladdin's blood across the stones was clearer than any reality she had faced before.

A forceful slap to her face jarred her temporarily back to full awareness, and his expression of tightly contained fury swam into view once more.

"Get a hold of yourself," he gritted out. It was not the first time she had heard that command from his lips. Was he an illusion then? Was this another vision of the past?

Had she gone as mad as the flaxen-haired princess he had once saved from death?

"Mozenrath…" she whispered, trembling. "Help me…"

He shook his head, and through her madness she could somehow see a flicker of grave concern. "I can't help you. You have to break this spell on your own."

His lips pressed together in futile anger as he drew her close to him roughly.

"You can do this. Fight it. It's all in your head."

She froze in wordless terror as the shadows behind him took shape, materializing into the grotesque beast that had stalked her throughout this nightmare. The familiar click of its claws returned in measured slowness, taking its time in approaching its unsuspecting prey. Her hands tightened on his arms.

"It's there, behind you!" she cried.

He simply shook his head, frowning severely. His penetrating gaze seemed to scour past the broken pieces of her sanity for something still concrete, something that hadn't shattered into uselessness.

"Jasmine," he said in a low, steady voice. "I need you to trust me. But more than that, I need you to trust yourself."

He leaned closer as the creature reared up behind him, its jaws opening wide in ravenous triumph, and Jasmine's eyes darted in horror to its distorted, shadowy face. Cold leather cupped her cheek and brought her face down to look at him again.

"Trust in yourself, Jasmine. The way I've trusted you."

She looked into the midnight depths of his eyes and felt something within her tilt off its axis. Or perhaps it had only fallen into its rightful place.

His faith in her lay beneath everything else he felt toward her. Perhaps it had begun as begrudging, desperate belief that she could save him as a last resort for survival, but somewhere along the line she knew it had changed as they were both caught in an urgent race against time. He had no choice but to believe in her, but he had chosen her in the first place because he had found her worthy of his trust. She would never let him die, though he was her enemy and had demanded from her what he had no right to have.

And now she knew he would not let her go, offering what little remained of his power to hold her up, to gather the broken pieces of her strength and sanity and place them back in her hands.

She felt the bitterness and humiliation and fear and every other dark feeling she had harbored toward him fade to nothing.

And now she saw that the monster behind him was cringing away, shrinking steadily into smaller and smaller shadows, the fearsome sound of its claws completely absent as it retreated. It dwindled as a dark flame burning into ash until it was no more. And she finally realized that the beast was not in her head; it was in her heart.

It was the same beast that had first begun to haunt her in the sands of the Mirror, carving out a space in her heart as its own toxic dwelling. It had lain dormant, testing its claws on her love and trust and sanity each time she had been forced to face the darkest parts of herself, but she had always turned away in fear and denial before she could see it as it truly was. It was a monster that fed off her hate and rage and bitterness, her desire for vengeance and her poisonous pride. It had thrived off her hypocrisy, her vehement belief that such darkness could not exist within her. All the while it had been waiting patiently for the day it would be liberated in full to consume her alive. Mirage's power had unlocked its cage and unleashed it. But it had all originated with her.

And she was now free from its grasp.

Her eyes swept his face in wonder and gratitude she could not yet fully understand. The concern had not faded from his expression.

She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. A second later his arms encircled her in return, and she felt the fraught tension leave him. She did not let go for a long moment.

He finally pried her hands from his shoulders and she stepped back, trying to form words.

"Y…you…I…"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that would have been cruel if she could not see his eyes.

"This is why princesses should be seen, not heard."

Despite herself, despite everything, she laughed. This entire string of nightmares…all of it had been an illusion. Reality reestablished itself in her mind, no longer blurred together with the terror of her own imagination. The faceless girl, the frozen wedding, even Aladdin's death…all a seamless nightmare seeded by her own mind and given shape by Mirage's magic.

She felt a new faith take root in her heart, faith that they would win this relentless war, not separately, but together. The song in her head returned, and she saw that the ethereal tune actually emanated from a stringed instrument at his side. The song had been real, somehow breaking the illusion of the hourglass with its power. The small harp was attached to his robes, and he drew it up now with his gauntleted hand, clasping its frame tightly as he pulled her away from the wall.

The urgency of their circumstances slammed down around her once more as they began to move down the corridor. He released her from his grasp and brought both hands up to the strings of the harp.

But they were not running; she trusted that the slow, even pace he had set was part of a true escape this time as he ran his fingers across perfectly tuned strings, continuing the melody she had first heard through a pane of illusory glass.

The walls shimmered almost imperceptibly, but she saw it and felt a shiver of anticipation, the hope of a slave about to win her freedom. She drew closer to him, looping her arm around his waist as he played on, sending cracks through the foundations of this massive illusion with the power of the simple melody crafted by his hands. She did not question what kind of magic this was that could counter such dark evil, but she trusted that it would not fail.

The walls began to fade as in a haze, the stone tiles no longer so crisp in texture, the torches dimming slowly. With each steady step forward, their surroundings receded, and the floor beneath them soon flickered into darkness.

The corridor around them disappeared completely at last, and she was able to breathe freely for the first time in ages. She looked at him then, to thank him somehow, to tell him with coherence this time what she felt. But she saw that his eyes were coldly focused once more.

"Hold still. Do not move. And do not doubt me. Do you understand?"

She nodded and held onto him tightly, and felt the slow vibrations in his chest as he spoke foreign words in a lilting pattern.

The air blurred around them, her body tingling with the feel of magic as his spell wove around them and through them both. The tug of the illusionary world released her reluctantly, finally broken by the continuous threads of his magic. In the next second he finished the spell, and she opened her eyes to solid reality.

The cold stone walls of the Citadel were the most welcoming sight she could have ever imagined. She buried her face in his robes, weeping in joy, now fully free of that nightmare world. He drew her to the side with gentle urgency, and she felt the edge of a table at her back. The rest of the room behind him was completely bare.

She slowly disengaged herself from him, her arms falling to her sides as she looked up into his relieved face. But alongside that relief was that ever-present tension and determination, the knowledge that his work was not yet complete.

"Thank you—"

"You survived," he said simply. "You didn't allow her that victory."

"No, I gave up," she said, touching his face. "I was only waiting to die."

He frowned. "Do you know how long you were gone?"

She shook her head.

"Seven days."

Her hand froze on his cheek. "Seven…days?"

"It took me five days to string that harp, the only instrument that can dispel illusions. I had almost no energy left to give it the potency required to counter Mirage's power. I spent days trying to get into Morbia even when it was finished."

"How did you get in?" she asked softly.

He shut his eyes briefly; his voice was even and absent of emotion. "Fashir."

She stared at him, suddenly feeling that this life-and-death struggle had expanded to a scope far beyond their two individual lives. If Fashir had appeared to him as well…

"He opened a way for me. And he held off Mirage as I went to find you. They're both still in Morbia, but he won't be able to hold her off forever."

"What do I need to do?" she said levelly.

He turned his head to the side, and she followed his gaze as it came to rest on the small glowing hourglass standing on the table behind her. She stared at its fluorescent sands. The top half was nearly empty. Days must have passed even during his short trip to rescue her. By all appearances, it was already the thirtieth day. She looked back at him with renewed urgency and gripped his arms.

"Tell me what to do."

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you forgive me?" The second question came more slowly, as if he feared the answer.

She did not reply for a moment, merely searching his worried gaze.

"I can't say you're a good man," she began. "You're not. But…you're good to me."

Something in his eyes seemed to falter at those words, something deeper than she could perceive or understand at the moment. She continued regardless, fully conscious of the time ticking down just a handspan away from them.

"And you saved me," she said, her lip trembling. "Your faith in me…the faith you've had all along…that's enough to save you, Mozenrath. I don't know if you love me, but just knowing you believe in me is enough."

She raised her face and kissed him, her lips joining his in a slow dance of passion and promise that would soon be fulfilled. His gauntlet encircled one of her hands, their fingers joining together as he guided her to the side, toward the glowing object that would have sealed his doom.

She looked directly into his eyes as they parted, and whispered the words.

"I forgive you."

Their hands touched the hourglass at the same time, fingers unlacing as each of them grasped one half of the wooden frame.

Without words or any other promises, they turned the hourglass on its head.

Something seemed to swell deep within her, a frightening force she had never felt before. A surge of pure power suddenly erupted through her and shot down her arm toward the hourglass, power that originated in the depths of her heart, its poles impossibly transformed from hatred to love. She screamed and shielded her eyes with her free hand as the hourglass flashed violently, its fluorescent sands pulsing wildly and lighting up the blackness of the room. His hand covered hers, preventing her from letting go of the object before the appointed time. He brought his other arm around her waist and held her close.

The sands swirled wildly inside as if in final protest, fighting to preserve their fated flow. But she held firm and forced herself to stare at its glowing surface though it pierced her eyes, and she felt the last of the power within her body pass through her hand into the hourglass. The cursed object glowed one last time before fading steadily, the color draining from its sands until there was no trace of its unnatural fluorescence at all. The granules inside were now the tone of earth.

Slowly, hesitantly, they both let go of the hourglass. Her entire body tingled with the aftershocks of the mysterious power she had not known could exist within her. And then the hourglass and its curse were all but forgotten as he took his first breath of real freedom, liberated from his invisible, immutable shackles, and they moved toward each other at the same time. She kissed him feverishly and he crushed her to him, lifting her up against the table. She bent back as he leaned into her, lips caressing her teary face, her jaw, her throat.

The deep rumble of something far above them shook the ceiling and walls with faint tremors, and the hourglass beside them rattled.

He drew her upright slowly, his arms still encircling her waist, and they both looked up toward the invisible force that had arrived on his land, still many layers of earth above them. She saw the spark of relentless fire in his eyes, the determination to settle this old score once and for all with his newfound power and renewed life. She held onto him firmly as he moved to disengage himself from her.

"I'm coming with you," she said simply.

He looked back at her with a grave expression, about to tell her no.

But she raised one hand to his lips to silence him, and it was his turn to stare at her in surprise. Her body was glowing faintly in the aura of the magic that had broken the curse. It felt as if every inch of her hummed with supernatural power, the intoxicating thought that she could bend the very air around her to her will. Was this how it felt to wield magic? Was this what bound Mozenrath to his gauntlet in helpless addiction?

The wordless awe in his face soon twisted into a much more familiar expression—dark, alluring delight.

"I have to say, power looks very cute on you, Princess."


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"…But you're still staying here."

She frowned and refused to let go of him as he once again drew away from her.

"I'm not helpless."

A resounding boom echoed far above them, beckoning him out of his stronghold, a final ultimatum before the full onslaught of the storm. The humor vanished from his face as he looked at her intently; they had no time to argue.

"No, but you are still a liability," he said curtly. "You have never wielded magic before, let alone in such potent quantities."

"So you're just going to put all this extra power to waste?" she said pointedly.

He paused, and she could almost see his mind whirring, figuring out an efficient compromise. "No. It would not do to waste such power." He passed his gloved hand over her forehead in a quick motion and incantation. "Stay out of sight until I need your energy…if I need it."

Her skin tingled as magic seemed to infuse with her flesh. "What did you do?"

"You're invisible now," he said. "But you will stay away from the fight, do you understand?"

"But won't—"

He shook his head. "No unnecessary risks. I'll send you somewhere safe, but where I can find you. _Don't move from there_."

Her frown deepened but she did not argue further, almost losing her balance as the floor began to shake even this far below the surface. It seemed the very desert was coming alive, vast dunes of sand straining against the intruder that had arrived to conquer it.

As he grasped her hand to teleport them above, she could feel the raw energy pulsing through her and mingling with the power that lay dormant in his gauntlet, held in check by his will. The air swept by them in a rush, and he let go of her hand.

A fierce whirlwind nearly swept her off balance as soon as she landed on solid ground, a maelstrom howling in her ears and blocking out all other sound. She covered her ears and hunched down, hardly able to see through the swirling black sands that cut through the air.

But she knew this was not a natural storm; storms did not visit this deadened land. This was Mirage's doing. She looked up through the thickening clouds of sand and caught a glimpse of the clear night sky.

And gasped when she realized that part of the sky was missing.

The familiar darkness scattered with twinkling white was completely gone, as if it had been torn out forcefully by jagged claws. Through the large rip in space, she could see the flash of orange fire and giant boulders that floated by in the absence of gravity.

_Stay there. Can't let her see you._

His voice sounded clearly in her head through the storm that raged all around her. She nodded imperceptibly and stood still, the loose fabric of her pants whipping around her legs in the strong wind. She could not see him through the chaotic sands.

Bright lances of flame were shooting down from the torn sky like a shower of meteors, lighting up the desert in an eerie display of elements that did not belong here. Hundreds of these falling stars began to take shape as they landed on the sands in bursts of fire, long slender paws and sleek bodies extending forth, sharp intelligent eyes focused keenly on their latest battleground. Her eyes widened in fear at the sheer number of them; they blanketed the desert like a haunting specter of candles over the vast floor of a morgue.

_I BELIEVE YOUR TENANCY HAS EXPIRED, SORCERER._

The gash in the sky took on the distinct shape of two feline eyes that glittered malevolently. They narrowed in delight, savoring the sight of the barren, dark land covered in the blazing fires of her minions. Jasmine shivered as they passed over her, fearing that she would be seen. But Mirage said nothing as she continued to survey the land from her incorporeal place in the sky.

Then she saw him, his cape billowing in the storm, his dark form hardly visible against the black sand obscuring the air. He floated a distance away, head raised to the sky, arms crossed in a cool pose of defiance.

_You must not have read the lease agreement carefully enough, Mirage. I'm the one holding the deeds._

_WITHOUT THAT GAUNTLET, YOU ARE NOTHING, BOY. I CRAFTED IT. WITHOUT ME—_

_Without you, I won't have any competition in conquering the Seven Deserts. So why don't we stop with the idle talk and allow me to assert that fact?_

A feline hiss seared through the air, making Jasmine wince and cringe back. Then the glowing pupils began to fade, and the large tear in the sky became visible once again behind the thin feminine figure that materialized in a flash of liquid fire. The goddess floated slowly downward toward the sorcerer but remained at a higher altitude, maintaining a haughty stance of superiority. Her voice had shed its menacing volume for insinuating malice.

_As I said years ago, you don't want to fight me. But…suit yourself._

She raised her slender arms just as Mozenrath swept his gauntleted hand in an arc. A piercing chorus of screeches from the firecats echoed in symphony with the low rumble that began deep underground, nearly throwing Jasmine off balance. She steadied herself, looking in bewilderment at the sand at her feet; it was shifting, flowing rapidly as if alive, or as if it had yet to reveal whatever gruesome life lay beneath.

She stood riveted in shock and terror by the deathly howl of the ghastly hounds that haunted these sands. Under the fiery light of the torn sky, she could see the first wave of them surging over the dunes, moving in fluid packs, seeming to glide forward on mist. And then her eyes were drawn with horror toward the sand all around her as the tremors ceased, and gleaming black claws began to emerge from the surface. The dark granules of the desert parted easily for the sleek, blackened forms of countless undead creatures that she had never before seen or imagined. She jumped back as the sand near her feet gave way to an enormous arachnid, its jet black legs extending outward like the slow bloom of a rotten flower. Its giant incisors clicked together as it raised its many beady eyes to the threat spread plainly across the sands of its home. Alongside it, a grotesque half-human, half-lizard crawled forth from its burrow, a long forked tongue flickering in the air, tasting the palpable tension and imminent battle, and it shook the sand off its dark mottled skin, rearing back with a low hiss and baring rows of sharpened teeth that dripped thick black liquid.

She forced her gaze away from the monstrous creatures beside her and looked across the desert, gasping at the vast army Mozenrath had called forth. Monsters of all forms and sizes stood at the ready, senses riveted on their fiery enemies, and awaited their master's command. The firecats were clearly outnumbered.

The dry laughter of the cat goddess sent the first crack through the tense silence. The faint sound of clapping drifted down belatedly to Jasmine's ears.

_Bringing out all the toys at once, hm? My firecats are thankful for the free entertainment._

She imagined the smirk that must have graced the sorcerer's features at that moment. Mirage had to be bluffing. There was no way that her firecats could withstand a simultaneous attack from seemingly endless hordes of the undead.

Then the goddess waved one dainty hand, and suddenly Jasmine had to shield her eyes. The desert flashed with blinding light, and when she opened her eyes again she found a sea of living fire before her; she could see no open spot of black sand through the waves of flame. The firecats' physical forms had dispersed and bled into each other, joining together into one giant amorphous body of fire.

_Let the games begin._

She turned and broke into a stumbling run as the flaming ocean under the goddess' control surged high into the air and slammed down onto the sands near her, entirely too close for comfort. Tendrils of heat licked at her back as she ran, heart pounding, teeth gritted to bite back a scream of terror.

A high-pitched shriek filled the air, masking her own frightened shout at the sight of the burning bodies of the undead creatures, the spiders writhing madly in the flames, all eight legs twitching and crackling. Some of the monsters began to sink back underground, leaving giant holes in the sand that were soon covered over in flame.

She realized with dread that she could not outrun the surge of fire, that somehow it seemed intelligent in its movements, selectively lingering to engage Mozenrath's creatures while rushing faster over barren land.

She had no time to call for help before a sudden wave of flame washed over her completely, and she screamed at the bright explosion of light enveloping her vision, the extreme heat wrapping around her body. She tried to cover her exposed skin with her arms, batting uselessly at the flames that licked along her limbs. And froze when she realized that she felt no pain. She stopped running as the sea of fire continued to surge past her, the shrill screams of undead monsters ringing across the sand. Staring down at her own hands, she turned over her palm, watching the flames dance across her fingers harmlessly. The glowing layer of power from within still protected her.

This…this was what it felt like to wield power. She felt invincible.

She was shaken out of her trance by a gigantic blast from above that reverberated through the air. Covering her head instinctively, she glanced up through the towering flames and caught the end of a glittering shower of sparks from some unseen source in the sky. The air appeared to bend and warp, and she took a step backward in dizziness. But the earth was not moving. It had to be an illusion spell, no doubt an attempt by Mirage to alter the battlefield to her advantage.

Another powerful boom shook the air and disrupted the spell, straightening the plane of reality once again. Jasmine frowned, nagged by a new worry. Mozenrath was expending copious amounts of energy merely to counter Mirage's illusion spells. Would he have enough to last him through the battle? If he needed her power, how would she survive the fight without her own magic shield to protect her?

But the next large blast that rang in her ears was of a distinct quality, purposely honed and channeled to strike at a certain area in the sky. And then there was the searing sound of a bright streak of power shooting rapidly toward the ground.

She watched the magic spell smash into the sand and burst in a brilliant shower of light, a giant shock wave spreading outward rapidly over the sea of fire and…

Turning it all into an ocean of dark liquid.

Thrown into confusion, Jasmine had no time to shield herself before a sizable wave knocked her over, drenching her clothes in the unidentifiable fluid. It was scentless, flowing smoothly around her as a receding tide. She heard the dismayed cries of hundreds of firecats, now scattered, no longer part of a large body of flame. Their soaked, lightless bodies leapt frantically over the watery sands, desperate to escape the liquid that had extinguished their power. They looked like nothing more than emaciated animals. Jasmine turned in time to see the undead hordes beginning to advance once more, their painful wounds covered over by their own mindless servitude and relief from the fire. She forced herself to watch as the first undead creature bounded forward and latched its jaws onto a firecat's neck, smashing its head down into the sand with a wet splash and an audible crack. She fought back her nausea as other grotesque beasts followed quickly behind, taking advantage of their enemies' sudden weakness and beginning a slow slaughter.

Despite the grisly sight, she had to grin and exult in silence. Mozenrath had somehow turned the tide and was close to winning.

Her silent cheers were abruptly cut short by a furious scream from above. Another explosion rattled the breath in her lungs, and a second later a distinctly human form plummeted into the sand a short distance away. She rushed over, her heart climbing high in her chest, and knelt by him, forsaking all thoughts of hiding. She gasped at the twisted position he had landed in, but he stood up and dusted himself off in a fastidious fashion, hiding his pain with a proud scowl. He ignored her presence completely, though she was sure he knew she was there. Despite his self-assurance, she could not help but stare in helpless worry at the way he clutched his side slightly, how he leaned on one leg while trying to hide the pain in the other.

The sound of the goddess' frustrated seething had turned into delighted laughter. With growing dread, Jasmine looked back over the water-covered sands and saw the firecats had flared back to life, now stepping over the wet ground without hindrance. The ones that had not died from the onslaught of the undead now fought back at full strength, actually forcing back the hounds and unidentified creatures of the black sand.

The goddess' malicious cackle tapered off into chuckles of mirth, echoing all around her.

_So you brought her along after all. Shame on you, boy; you'll never make a proper Prince Charming that way._

Jasmine froze.

"Boo."

She screamed as a clawed hand raked at her arm, dragging her sideways. She kicked out violently, trying to break the goddess' hold. She caught a flash of a cat's devilish grin, yellow eyes drinking in her pain and shock.

Then the wind was knocked out of her by a blast of power from elsewhere, and she flew backward into the sand, freed from the goddess' iron grip. She sat up slowly, disoriented but fully aware that she had just been inches from death yet again. Her body still tingled with the power pulsing across her skin. She stared at her arm in morbid fascination; it was glowing dark blue, illuminating her veins in an eerie dark light.

By aiming for her instead of Mirage, he'd succeeded in freeing her. She ran to his side, wondering if her shield of invisibility had dissolved completely.

"And now you're hitting her as well. Definitely not long-term material, I'd say."

Mirage stood a safe distance away from them both, slender arms folded, considering them curiously. Her countenance was yet unmarred by the battle, her crimson dress flowing smoothly as she sauntered toward them, the sound of her firecats' victorious snarls in their ears. But the battle between their armies had faded into the background. It was the goddess or the sorcerer who would determine the real outcome.

"But she likes me for me." His mouth curved in a cynical half-smile. "Prince Charmings are last season, apparently."

Mirage's eyes widened at his open admission of their relationship, or whatever they had between them.

"I see."

Her slitted eyes riveted on Jasmine, and there was no question that the invisibility spell had broken. Jasmine stared back defiantly, not showing her fear.

"The street rat really is yesterday's news now, hm?"

Jasmine had no answer for her. So she did not speak, suddenly burdened by a renewed weight of shame and worry.

"I believe silence is the best affirmation," Mirage said nonchalantly, tapping her chin with a sly smile. "I fully expect an invitation to—"

A blast scored the sand at her feet, but she did not flinch, merely looking down at it and shaking her head slowly. "Temper, temper. If you're not careful, Princess, he might hit you even when you're not in danger."

"Business before personal matters, Mirage," Mozenrath said, gauntlet upraised and ready to fire again. "Don't expect an invitation onto my land at any point after this."

"Your land?" Mirage questioned, her mouth twisting in a sneer. "This domain was practically handed to you by a senile old fool, complete with the power of a stolen gauntlet that _I _created. This accursed desert is mine, boy. _Mine_."

His cool countenance darkened at her flippant dismissal of the cost he had paid for his power and his domain. "This 'accursed desert' begs to differ."

He moved his gauntleted hand in a quick motion, chanting an incantation, and the sand beneath their feet began to shift and rumble, as if ready to send forth reinforcements for his undead army. But nothing emerged from the surface this time. The sand merely rose in two massive waves to their left and right, almost blocking out the moonlight. Mozenrath stepped back casually, and Jasmine followed without questioning, looking up at the walls of sand in trepidation. Mirage did not move, seemingly unimpressed by the display even as the sand loomed over her.

The walls surged inward, smashing into the space where the goddess had been standing a moment before, and Jasmine shielded her eyes from the spray of sand that cascaded over her body.

The two waves rose again instantaneously and shot into the sky, chasing the small streak of crimson that twisted and dodged each strike until they finally enveloped their target. The sand quickly swirled into one giant roiling sphere that scattered granules down to the ground like a shower of dry rain.

Jasmine held her breath as both of them watched the giant mass of sand above, wondering if the goddess really could be defeated so quickly. She glanced at Mozenrath and found the answer in his grave expression.

The air began to waver once again, and she shook her head as if to clear it. But the illusions were returning, rending the fabric of reality all around them. She looked up at the sky and found the rapid swirl of the sand was slowing until it stopped altogether and fell back down to earth. He raised one hand and parted the massive wave just before it hit them both, and it rushed over their heads as if running over an invisible ceiling.

She clamped her hands over her ears as the goddess' voice rose in terrifying volume over the din of the sand shower and the battle between their armies, chanting in a foreign tongue with malice laced thickly through every word. Mozenrath grabbed her hand and drew her close to him as he chanted a counterspell, touching his gauntlet to her head. Her disorientation cleared immediately, but the air and even the desert itself continued to waver, seeming to warp into some new reality.

A flash of red caught her eye a distance to her left, and she turned only to find nothing. Then the bright color appeared in the other corner of her vision, and she whirled once more but found only blank space. The loud chanting continued in her ears, drowning out the sound of Mozenrath's voice shouting at her.

He raised his hand to cast a spell, but the blue-black fire that erupted from his gauntlet suddenly turned back on them, bending in mid-air and scattering into harmless flames at their feet. He growled and tightened his hand into a fist.

He let go of her and clasped his hands together in a quick spell, then drew them apart several inches, palms open. The space between his hands shimmered brightly and solidified into a familiar instrument. The harp he had crafted to save her.

Wasting no time, he drew one hand across its strings, and her ears almost shattered from the screeching cacophony that sundered the air. Mozenrath had closed his eyes in focus, not shielding his own ears from the terrible dissonance resonating from his hands. He continued to move his fingers across the harp, sending forth a melody of discord that was unrecognizable from the beautiful song he had composed earlier.

The deafening voice of the goddess rose even further as if in willing conflict with the horrid music, and Jasmine fell to her knees, feeling her insides curdle at the vile harmony. But she forced her eyes open, wanting to see what was happening, how Mozenrath would counter the massive illusion. The sand was flickering gold now underneath the flames of her firecats and the fierce battle that continued to rage, the hordes of creatures oblivious to the real battle going on between their masters. The grating song of the harp began to play faster, more urgently, and the sand reverted to its black shade.

_WHEN WILL YOU GIVE UP, BOY?_

The chanting did not break as the goddess threatened him in a low, menacing tone. She had already lost all patience, and Jasmine feared she had yet to unleash the full measure of her power.

_Jasmine, _he hissed in her ear. She turned toward him and stood shakily, still holding her head in pain. He had not looked at her at all, still focused intently on the harp. _ Let go of your fear!_

_Fear?_

She heard an exasperated sigh.

_She's feeding off of your fear. That's how the firecats returned. And that's how she's weaving this thick illusion. That blast bent back on me because you don't trust me._

She bit her lip at the thought of her own helplessness. She still did not know how to master the depths of her mind, the hidden doors Mirage had manipulated so masterfully in her labyrinth. How could she control her own fear when she was surrounded by such terrifying forces?

_For the last time, trust me! Trust in yourself!_

She drew close to him, watching his tense countenance as his fingers moved across the stringed harp, not missing any notes in the jarring cadence of his desperate fight against the illusion. She knew she had to trust him, but actually doing it was another matter. In the face of unprecedented danger and imminent loss for them both, it seemed impossible.

His hands paused for a split-second as a cough racked his body, and the sands flashed gold once more all around them. The firecats snarled triumphantly over the scattered bodies of the undead legions that had already fallen under their claws. Her hand latched onto his shoulder in alarm, urging him to recover, to do something before Mirage's power overtook them fully. The goddess' malicious laughter rang all around them like a death knell.

He turned toward her with the fire of desperation in his eyes, and snatched her hand from his shoulder in an iron grip.

_Give me your power, now._

She had scarcely nodded when a surge of power flooded through her, channeled through her hand into his gauntlet. The glove seemed to come alive with dark energy, flaring blue and black before he let go of her with a dangerous smirk on his face.

_I'll pay you back later._

She sank to the ground, drained of strength as he drew his gloved hand once more across the instrument, and the harp hummed with new energy coursing through its strings. The discordant song grew louder in volume, but she forced her hands into the sand, refusing to block it out this time. She had to hear his victory, trust in his power, in her own power that she had just given him.

The voice of the goddess suddenly waned in volume, dwarfed by the massive crescendo of his song. The air began to waver even more rapidly, bending back on the spell she had cast, and Jasmine could actually sense the layers of the illusion folding in on themselves. She stood, her knees still trembling, and looked up. The tear in the fabric of the sky was pulsating wildly, its edges expanding and shrinking in a volatile rhythm. She still could not see Mirage, but she could hear her increasingly desperate voice in her head. The incantation was no longer enough to hold back the power of the harp.

And the song that wove through the desert began to change, the dissonant melody returning to its proper tones, singing with power and strength, no longer meandering and wistful as the first time she had heard it. No longer at odds with the power of the goddess, the song was free to resume its former flow and breathtaking melody.

When the music reached its climax, she heard a screech of dismay and even pain from the goddess, no longer ringing through her head, but outside her body, high above in the air. She looked up once again to see the crimson streak of her dress, clawed hands raised in fury to pull at her own hair. The black sand shifted under her feet then, and she stumbled back against his side, holding onto his arm. He did not look at her as he pressed the harp into her hands and brought his gauntlet up with outstretched fingers, his glowing palm facing the sky.

The entire desert came alive in an instant. For as far as she could see, the sands began to rise in a giant surge, as if it were an endless ocean in a wild storm. In the next second the desert erupted on all sides, shooting into the sky and enveloping her vision in black. Dropping the harp, she covered her eyes instinctively, but he pried her hands from her face with gentle insistence. Something faltered helplessly inside her as she saw his smirk of certain victory, and he jerked his head toward the sky. They turned together and watched as the desert ascended to impossible heights at the command of its master. She could not even hear the shriek of the goddess as the sand must have already enveloped her. She caught scattered flashes of fire as the sand swept her army of minions upward in a tidal swell, extinguishing their flames under its crushing power.

They stood in a shield of stillness, separated from the living walls of sand by mere inches, watching as the desert rose to its final height and met the gaping tear in the sky that Mirage had meant to use to join their two domains. It smashed into it and sprayed wildly as a tide of water upon the shore, and began to condense and swirl madly around the gap like boiling water in a cauldron.

She stared in awe as the sand eventually began to slow, seeming to meld with the fabric of reality, or perhaps to repair it. It began to descend once more, spreading thinly across the air as it scattered, having completed its massive task of defeating the goddess. The sky was whole once more, and Mirage and her firecats were nowhere to be seen. They had been forced back into their realm and sealed off hopefully in some permanent fashion from his land.

But her awe quickly turned to panic as Mozenrath suddenly collapsed beside her, dragging her down with him. His eyes were already closed in exhaustion. She glanced up in terror at the black desert that was seconds away from burying them both in a mile of sand.

She had no time to scream before she threw herself over his body and cast out a desperate prayer for survival. Her skin tingled unexpectedly with the remnants of her own power, a last bewildering comfort before thousands of tons of living sand slammed down upon them.

She held onto him tightly as a deafening avalanche enveloped them both, but there was no crushing weight on her back, no suffocating trap of sand. She opened her eyes and looked around them in wonder, and found they were still shielded, but by her power this time. In another second the sound of the world falling ceased almost as quickly as it had come, and she raised her head to find that they were lying in a deep ditch, surrounded on both sides by high walls of sand.

She breathed in and out slowly, closing her eyes for a brief moment to take in all that had transpired, to accept that they were alive and they were the victors. Her mind threatened for the umpteenth time in a month to snap into pieces. But this time the knowledge weighing down on her mind was not crushing in its sorrow, but overwhelming in relief and gladness.

She laughed as she bent over him and kissed his face, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He had done it. They had done it together.

She drew him up into her lap, holding him gently for a moment before beginning to wonder how to move him back into the Citadel. She looked up at the high walls surrounding them and frowned. She still did not how to properly use the magic that coursed through her veins, and attempting to climb the steep dunes dragging an unconscious burden was outright dangerous.

She never thought she would smile at the sight of the undead creatures that appeared at the top of the dunes and began to slide down toward their master.

...

The inside of the Citadel was oppressively cold and dark. Most of the torches had gone out days before, and the sense of desolation was even more pervasive than usual. It was as if the whole place had slid toward death alongside its master, falling into disrepair as his life had steadily dwindled through the sands of an hourglass.

Clad in one of his long robes, she sat in the darkness of his room beside his bed, close enough to see the outline of his face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. She drew a wet cloth across his forehead and neck and wrung it in the bucket of warm water the servants had brought at her clipped command. With methodical patience she washed away the sweat and dust and blood from his skin, careful not to expose too much of his weakened body to the chill air. She shivered as her hands ran over his scars. There were many. Most were old, perhaps nearly invisible to the eye, but they were deep. Now she knew why he covered himself so fastidiously even in the desert heat, why he had always kept his throat wrapped in bandages despite the discomfort they must have caused.

When she finished, she lay down beside him and held him close. His skin was like ice. He did not move, his body having sealed itself off from consciousness as if distrusting the fact he was still alive.

Resting her head in the crook of his neck, she drifted in and out of dreamless sleep, waking every so often to shift to his other side. He was slowly warming, but his skin was still too cold. The gauntlet was still on his hand, and she did not remove it, not knowing how the nature of its bond to him may have changed since the curse had been broken.

It was a nameless hour in the night when he finally stirred. She loosened her grip around him and felt his chest rise in a full breath of air. His chin brushed the top of her head as he turned, pausing when he noticed her against him. He relaxed and lay back, making no move to leave her embrace. Neither of them spoke for a long while.

She stared into the darkness; it seemed time had slowed to a trickle between her breathing and the silence of the desert outside.

"How does it feel?" she said quietly.

The hand idly tracing the curve of her side stopped.

"To be free," she elaborated.

She felt the light glances of breath across her hair as he answered.

"It doesn't feel like anything."

Her own silence told of her agreement. It was nothing like she had imagined it would be. To have finally broken free of madness and terror and death, only to feel nothing. There was merely the need for rest, to stop thinking and moving altogether. Perhaps she should have expected this. Victory was short-lived; all threats to her life were now gone, but emptiness now lay in their wake.

His hand left her side briefly, and a pale light flickered to life somewhere nearby, illuminating the room in gray. She immediately shielded her eyes, a sharp pain spearing through her head. He extinguished the light scarcely a second later in reaction.

"Sit up," he said.

He pulled her up alongside him with surprising strength and turned her to face him. His gloved hand hovered near her face, and she held still, eyes closed. The throbbing had begun to recede, but as soon as he brushed her forehead it exploded in pain and she flinched away with a low cry. He drew back and stood from the bed, moving quickly toward the cabinets.

She felt nauseous at the sight of the fruit, though her body was in desperate need of nourishment again. He made her finish at least half.

The frown did not disappear from his face. She began to feel worried.

"What is it?"

"Your mind didn't have time to recover before Mirage took you."

She placed a hand gingerly against the side of her head, but felt no pain this time, only a vague numbness from the fruit's magic. "And what will that mean?"

His frown deepened. "You'll need something stronger than the Fruit of Renewal to heal you."

She took his arm before he could leave her side again. "Wait. Just…wait. I'm okay now. I just want to rest."

"No," he said, and stood anyway. He retrieved a vial of the magic liquid and uncorked it. She cringed from the bitter smell.

"You sure that hasn't expired?" she joked weakly.

She could just make out the curve of his smile in the darkness.

"Drink."

She took it reluctantly and tried not to gag when she brought it to her mouth. Pinching her nose, she took a small sip.

He snatched the vial before it could drop from her fingers as she coughed violently, tears stinging her eyes. He tilted her chin up and ignored her protests, bringing the glass to her lips once more.

"Throw it back."

She shut her eyes tightly and swallowed fast, fighting the urge to spit it back out. It tasted like liquid ash, wafting into her nose and choking off her breath. He held her firmly as she fought to keep it down.

"Wine…doesn't seem…so bad…anymore," she managed to choke out.

He chuckled and set aside the empty vial. "About time you came around."

Then his voice faded for a moment as a soothing wave of warmth spread from her stomach to the rest of her body and reached her head. She vaguely felt his arms supporting her through the haze of magic that enveloped her senses.

She blinked and her vision cleared. The gray light illuminated the room again, and this time there was no pain. Her mind felt light, no longer lined with fractures, and the mire of exhaustion had faded as well. She could now see him clearly at this close proximity, the calm expression on his face, robe loose around his lean shoulders.

"Thank you. I think," she said, mouth twisting in disgust at the vile aftertaste of the potion.

For a second she thought he might conjure a glass of wine just to mock her, but he gave her the rest of the fruit instead. She took it without protest, not minding the strange flavor after the elixir. He watched her with an elusive expression that she could not decipher until she somehow caught the slightest downward flicker of his eyes.

She was suddenly conscious of his arm around her, though it had not moved since she had taken the potion. Her slowly returning appetite diminished to nothing again as she felt strangely apprehensive under his intent gaze. He took the fruit from her when she lowered it from her mouth, and put it aside without a glance.

"Mozenrath," she said softly.

"You've won the challenge," he said.

She paused.

"You did what was required to lift the curse. You are free to go."

His expression gave away nothing once more, but he raised a hand to stroke her face, and she was sure he could feel her trembling.

"The cost you paid was greater than I expected. And as much as you deserved to learn the cardinal truth of power, it should not have gone so far."

There was no guilt in his voice, but the words themselves made her wonder if she were dreaming.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

She opened her mouth to ask him why he was telling her this now, whether he was still too tired to think straight. But as he began to draw back from her, she held him fast.

"You already have my forgiveness," she said steadily. "It's a greater truth than power."

She held his palm against her face, and something between them changed. She was suddenly reminded of a time that might have been, the faraway scent of her garden and his face under a noonday sun, free of the curse of power, lips imparting a promise she could not hear but somehow knew.

"I love you."

She leaned forward and kissed him gently. He went still for a moment, but soon his arms encircled her waist and pulled her close. Her hands glided over his shoulders and down his back beneath his robe, brushing scarred skin. It was no longer cold.

She shifted forward onto his lap, and he stopped moving when she wrapped her legs around his waist. She broke their kiss and looked into his eyes, aware of the tenseness of his hands low on her hips.

"I want you," she said.

His gaze flickered, and she leaned her forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath on her cheek. They did not move for several heartbeats, as if he were allowing her time. She closed her eyes when he finally broke the stillness, his lips caressing the side of her face, the soft skin under her ear. His hands slowly slid up her back to entangle in her hair, and the warm fire within her began to burn a little faster.

She tilted her head back as his mouth met her throat and traveled down to her collarbone, tasting each slight curve and shiver of anticipation. She draped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his neck, the place where she could feel his heartbeat right under his skin.

Her breathing quickened when she felt him hardening beneath her thighs. Swallowing dryly, she looked into his eyes when he drew back, his hands ceasing their motion in her hair. With trembling fingers she fingered the collar of the robe she wore, heart pounding. His gaze did not leave her face as his hands joined hers and guided them steadily, thumbs brushing over the curves of her shoulders and upper arms. The soft material fell easily to her waist and she instinctively curled forward to cover herself. His hand cupped her chin and brought her face up to look at him. The question still stood.

She nodded, breath trapped halfway in her throat, and he removed his hand from her face, his palm warming her abdomen instead. It smoothed up the flat plane of her stomach and she tensed as it touched her breast, caressing the soft skin in gentle circles. Her pulse fluttered as he lowered his head and his hot breath trailed from her shoulder to the curve of her other breast. A gasp escaped her throat when his mouth closed over the tip and his tongue joined his hand in the same torturous motion.

She shifted her legs apart, the pressure between them already too tight, and heard a harsh hiss of breath. He was growing harder against the space between her hips, and through the delirious daze of pleasure she realized fully where this would lead, where she had wanted it to lead from the moment she had kissed him. For once she did not question him or herself, immersed in the simple, immutable thought that she loved him, trusted him, knew him beneath the layers of cold and indifference. There was a fiery emptiness within her that longed to be filled, and she clung to him tightly, wanting only him to fill it. She wanted all of him, beyond the touch of his hands and the warmth of his lips, beyond whispered words and soft caresses and flushed skin.

He tugged at the knot of her robe and shrugged off the fabric from his own shoulders at the same time. She ran her hands down his back, over the ridges of scars and tense muscle, and rose on her knees to allow the layers of cloth to fall from her hips. She undid the tie at his waist and pulled the long robe free with effort, the fabric partly trapped under his weight.

In the dim, gray light she could see the hard length between his legs, and with hesitation she slid her palm experimentally over it, pausing when he inhaled sharply, breathing hard. She began to pull away but he held her wrist firm, eyes locking with hers; the flint in his gaze rendered her suddenly breathless. And then her field of vision tilted as his hand brushed the empty warmth between her legs. His thumb stroked her once and she reeled, lips parted in a wordless cry of pleasure, unconsciously leaning into his touch. Her hand tightened on him in turn and she felt his fingers thrust into her with a prick of pain. Her muscles clenched instinctively around his hand, the skin of her thighs slick around his arm, and his lips grazed her cheek, her eyelids, trying to calm her.

He began to move his hand against her, fingers sliding in and out of the tight space, and she lay back, arms falling to her sides as she shut her eyes, pleading with sounds she could not understand. He slowed his pace, taking his time in exploring her, and touched a spot that made her vision explode in stars. She opened her legs further and drew him toward her, hands snaking through his hair. He lowered his mouth to her throat once more and kissed the skin beneath her ear, fingers still pushing into her, torturing her senses as she neared a precarious edge she had never reached before.

But before she reached it he drew back, and the sudden emptiness within her ached even more intensely to be filled. She raised her knees and secured his waist as he positioned his body between her legs, pressing against her entrance just enough to stoke the fire in her blood.

He stole her breath with a hard, passionate kiss, casting aside the slow caution and patience he had practiced for her sake. She responded readily, wrapping her arms around his back and sliding her body downward, pushing him into her in one shallow stroke.

She bit her lip at the sting of pain, the sudden discomfort of him within her, and they both fell still for a span of several hitched breaths.

"Trust me?" His voice was ragged in her ear.

She nodded against his shoulder, and he lifted himself off her on his arms, cold air rushing between them, the heat suddenly all gathered below at the point where their bodies were joined. He thrust into her once, slowly, and she flinched beneath him, willing the fear to fade, caught in a war between want and pain. She felt his lips on her face, caressing her gently as he moved inside her again, pulling back and going in deeper this time. His name escaped her lips in a cracked whisper, still pleading for something she did not know.

"Relax," he spoke against her heated skin. "Relax…"

She closed her eyes and felt the slow burn begin anew at the touch of his hand above the stretching pain, his thumb drawing circles around the sensitive flesh as he increased his pace. Her breaths came in gasps and her vision swam in dizzying stars, an incomprehensible wave of pleasure washing through her with each stroke.

She spoke his name again as her anchor in rising floodwaters, holding onto his shoulders as if she would fall if she let go now, and he moved still faster, breaths sharp and hot against her neck. His dark eyes gleamed before they closed in ecstasy, lips parting, losing their path over her skin.

She cried out then as he thrust into her once more and filled her to the brim, heat spreading back through their bodies as sudden wildfire, erasing all the empty space and cold between them in an instant. He collapsed against her and she wound her arms around his back, heart threatening to burst in the aftermath of release.

She lay locked in his embrace, still holding him inside her, sweat mixing over skin, breaths coming fast and faint. The gray light of the room was the only reminder that the world was not a senseless burst of stars. She closed her eyes and let the remaining tension seep out of her as he lifted his head from her shoulder slowly, kissing her jaw and the side of her mouth.

"I love you," she whispered.

His lips found their real destination, and the only other vacant ache within her filled as she kissed him back.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

She awoke to shadowed sunlight and the absence of warmth. Shivering, she drew the blankets closer around herself, and found the sheets beside her cold.

She opened her eyes to an empty bed, the canopy half-drawn around the sides, and reached over to touch the rumpled sheets, the empty space where he should have been. Her hand came to rest on the pillow, knuckles brushing soft silk.

The memories were clear in her mind as if she'd never fallen asleep. The breathless escape from Morbia, the overturning of the curse, the ensuing battle that had torn up an entire desert. Tending to him as he was unconscious, trying to keep him warm. Reaching for him when he awoke.

It was there that her memory began to blur, between the heat of their bodies and his name on her lips, the torturous delirium of pleasure. The last thing she remembered was his arms encircling her waist, the warmth of his chest at her back.

She needed to see him.

Sitting up, she drew back the curtain and stood from the bed, wincing at the dull throb between her legs. She drew the blanket with her as she gingerly stepped across the cold stone floor, and had wrapped it halfway around her body when she noticed him.

Clad in the same dark, loose robe, he leaned against the windowsill, staring out over his vast domain. He did not turn or speak as she approached.

She stood beside him and her arm brushed against his when she leaned forward as well, watching the silent, shadowed desert outside. The signs from the battle were still there, the massive hills of sand that had fallen after the final onslaught. The sky was a wash of midnight once more, disrupted only by the shrouded haze of the sun.

"Good morning," she said softly.

"It's already the afternoon."

A slight smile curved one half of his mouth when she looked up at him.

"You slept well, I presume," he said.

"I usually do after barely surviving a disaster."

His smirk changed to an expression of mock offense, and she suppressed a laugh as she realized his purposeful misunderstanding.

"A disaster," he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

She kept a straight face and played along. "That's what I said."

She flinched at the deceptively light touch of his hand on her waist, the possessive brush of his fingers over her hip. He drew her close and lowered his face to her ear.

"You think you could last through another one?"

She swallowed dryly as he traced the folds of the sheet down toward her thigh. "It's…a little soon for another, isn't it?"

"It is rather a nuisance that disasters can't quite be predicted," he went on, his breath warm against her skin. "And that they're always different each time…"

"Mozenrath," she warned lightly, without conviction. Half of her wanted to push him away in discomfort at her own helplessness, but the other half was drawn toward the memories of the night before, wanting to see just how different they could become.

"But I suppose if you're unprepared," he said, hands smoothing over the fabric around her hips. "There is a way to escape…if I let you, that is."

She tilted her chin up and accepted his mouth on her own, savoring his taste and the contour of his smile.

The next second, the smile curved into a smirk. "Looks like you're in luck."

A noise of protest slipped from her lips as he drew away from her and the air between them suddenly seemed too great a distance. She flushed at how pathetic she had been to fall for his ploy, and narrowed her eyes at the infuriating self-satisfaction on his face.

"You can bet I won't be walking into any more disasters with you," she asserted.

He merely chuckled. "We'll see about that. I was going to suggest a proper meal, unless you still haven't tired of the Fruit of Renewal."

"And this time I assume 'proper meal' means what it sounds like."

"What else could it mean?"

She rolled her eyes and walked past him. "At least give me something 'proper' to wear."

x

They ate in comfortable silence, and the questions grew in her mind each minute she observed him. The long-held tension in his shoulders was gone and his mannerisms were more relaxed, though there was still that aloof air that shielded his thoughts from her. But she only had to compare him to the way he had been throughout the first half of his challenge to realize with wonder just how much he had changed.

He was about to refill her glass for the third time when she ventured to ask.

"There's something I need to know," she began. "Something changed when I was in Morbia. You're different from before."

The glass filled halfway with water before he stopped.

"I'm no longer dying," he said dryly.

She pressed her lips into a tight line. "Well, other than that."

"This is essentially the same question you asked before. What exactly is going on between us."

"That's part of it, but not everything. What made you change so much when Mirage kidnapped me?"

He looked at her for a long moment.

"Death changes things."

"You mean the thought of dying."

He shook his head.

"I've been dying ever since I put the gauntlet on, as you know well enough. And I lived and breathed death for most of my life before that. But the weight of its burden is the same regardless. It spells the end of everything. All the desires and plans we create for ourselves in imagining our tomorrows are endless." He smiled coldly at his own poetry. "It isn't something I would ever accept without a fight."

The smile faded as quickly as it had come. "But when Mirage took you, I had to accept that I had failed. I had no power left at that point. I had no way of getting into Morbia. No way of knowing how much longer you'd be alive. There wasn't much of a point in trying."

"But you still tried," she said.

"I had to."

His answer sank in with slow intensity, and she reached for his hand.

"Don't sentimentalize it," he warned. "I said that I would never accept death willingly."

"Not just your death," she said, trying to see past the walls that stubbornly remained.

"No," he agreed after a pause, and she interlaced their fingers.

"What did Fashir say to you?"

The reminder of the old seer apparently struck a sour chord with him. "He repeated what he said to me the first time."

"The first time?" she cut in, surprised. "He…he appeared to you before the thirty days began?"

He nodded, a familiar look of contempt crossing his features. "I summoned him with the thought he might be able to break the curse or get rid of Mirage for me. Little did I know the only thing he could do was weave vague riddles."

"What did he say then?" she pressed.

"Some useless drivel about love."

She gave him a measured look, wanting to know what he was unwilling to elaborate. "He appeared to me as well, when my father was poisoned. He said that evil and hate were no match for love's power. It's the same thing he told you, isn't it?"

"More or less."

"It had to be useful in the end," she said slowly. "That's how you started the challenge."

He confirmed her guess with a brief silence.

"It was the only route I had left to try."

She drew her hand away and folded it quietly over the other in her lap. The fact that Fashir was essentially behind everything that had happened to her should have bothered her intensely. If he hadn't appeared to Mozenrath and given him that crucial lead, none of this would have happened.

And Mozenrath would have died yesterday.

The mounting accusations dissipated quickly, and she brushed aside the thought of the seer with surprising ease.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked instead. It was the other pressing question she needed him to answer, even more important than the first.

He was unfazed by the intrinsic challenge in her voice. It seemed he had even been expecting it.

"Fortify my land. Ensure that Mirage can never return here, and devise some way to get rid of her for good."

"And then?"

He fixed her with a level stare. "I know what you're getting at. And I think you already know the answer."

She shook her head. "No, not this time. I need you to tell me."

"Agrabah will remain safe, as we agreed. You don't have to worry about your kingdom."

"It's not Agrabah I'm worried about. You know that."

His jaw clenched briefly. "I didn't make any other promises."

"You still can."

"There's no reason to."

They were at a standoff again, and she could feel the wall between them steadily gaining height. She had to stop it before she lost her grip.

"You said that death changes things," she said. "It should change this too."

"There is no should or shouldn't when it comes to death. There's only reality."

"You can change that reality, Mozenrath. Nothing's holding you back."

His eyes narrowed and she could sense his annoyance, tempered and held in check, but as familiar as his coldness.

"You're aware that this discussion will lead nowhere."

"That's for both of us to decide."

"We've both already decided. So why don't we just end this here and not waste our time?"

"Why?" she asked. "Why don't you want to change? You don't need to conquer; you don't have anything to prove to anyone."

"You should know that I've never sought to prove anything to anyone. This is just who I am, and I'm not going to change. You should know that as well."

"But it wasn't always like this," she persisted. "You didn't always want to conquer and rule over people. It's fully within your choice to live for some better purpose."

He snorted. "I appreciate the invitation to heroism, but no. As I said before, the discussion is closed."

"Mozenrath." She leaned forward and set her palm on the table in front of him. "After all I've sacrificed for you, I can't let you dismiss it that easily. You need to listen to me at least. I deserve that much."

He looked at her calmly. "I'm listening. And I still disagree."

The words came before she could lose her courage. "Then tell me why you want to be exactly like Destane."

The little remaining warmth drained from his expression and she almost drew back under the ice in his glare.

"I am not Destane," he said, voice deathly soft.

She steeled herself and stood her ground. "How are you any different, if all you want is to conquer the Seven Deserts and gain more power for yourself?"

"Half of the rulers in the Seven Deserts have entertained such ambitions at one point or another. You'd be a fool to define Destane by such lenient standards. For all the time you spent in that Mirror of Fools, you still don't have any idea who that man was, do you?"

"I know who he was. I know he was needlessly cruel and drew sadistic pleasure from torture and murder and anything that caused people pain. He made your life a living hell and he deserved what came to him in the end. But—"

She trailed off as his fingers entangled in her hair and she felt the chilling touch of his gauntlet on her face, suddenly cold enough to make her shiver.

"You saw the night he did this, didn't you."

She froze at the cruelty in his eyes as he leaned forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. His hand tightened painfully in her hair.

"Didn't you?" he whispered harshly in her ear. "Or maybe the Mirror spared you the sight of the rest?"

"Mozenrath—"

"Could you imagine being scoured raw of everything that you had ever held sacred, raped of your innocence and left to bleed. To be cursed permanently with no chance of deliverance, a slave in mind and body while you became just like the undead in spirit."

She shut her eyes. "Stop."

"Could you imagine the nights," he went on, the strain just barely audible in his voice, "the pain, the guilt, the powerlessness. And the despair that came with the fact you couldn't even die."

"Stop it," she said, trying to pull away. He let go of her hair roughly and reestablished the distance between them.

"Have I done that to you?" he said simply.

She shook her head, sickened.

"You still think you can equate me with that depraved madman?"

She forced herself past the horrifying images he had conjured, the chilling aura of his long-dead master, and held onto the reluctant conviction that he was wrong. That he'd been wrong since he'd made the fateful choice for revenge more than half a lifetime ago.

"You were still willing to kill her for your own goals," she said.

The air froze between them, but the hatred in his gaze scorched her skin.

"I set her free," he said, gritting out each word. "I opened the only route to her deliverance."

"You killed her so you could have the gauntlet. So you could have more power. That's the real reason, and it's the reason for everything you've done since then."

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and she knew she'd gone too far when his expression turned as ruthless as it had been the first time they'd met as enemies.

"So you still haven't learned the truth after all this time, what power really means. What life can be reduced to in its absence.

"Perhaps I should tell you then exactly how I managed to shield your kingdom when I hardly had the strength to walk."

A slow wave of dread spread through her at the sight of his cruel smirk.

"I used the black sand. But it wasn't free. The spirit of the land demanded a sacrifice to even consider defending instead of destroying an enemy kingdom. A payment of high price: one hundred souls for each day of Agrabah's safety."

Her hands rose to cover her mouth in soundless shock.

"The agreement was fifteen days, no more, no less," he said succinctly. "Fifteen hundred souls in total."

"No…"

Her heart began to pound in horror and revulsion at what he'd done, what he'd had no qualms about doing in order to salvage his own chances of survival. In order to gain her trust and forgiveness. She'd been so worried for his safety and so grateful when he'd come back, exhausted and drained of strength, had thanked him and held him as they slept. Had given herself to him completely because she loved him.

But he hadn't told her of the cost, and she hadn't asked. The unspoken truth was a jagged spear through her heart. She was responsible. It was her fault this had happened, that all those people had had to—

She paused, a desperate hope surging through her.

"Have you already made the sacrifices?" she asked anxiously.

"No," he answered, and that one word was enough to release the trapped breath in her lungs. "I had no energy or time to leave my land, as all the days that followed were spent on crafting the harp and getting into Morbia."

"So you still have time to prevent this," she said.

His cynical tone threatened to suffocate her again. "There is no going back on a deal struck with the black sand. The debt must be paid within a month. Two weeks have passed already."

"Two weeks." She latched onto that timeframe, refusing to give up. "There has to be something you can do. Some other kind of payment."

"There is nothing," he said plainly. "As I said, the deal can't be broken or changed."

"But there has to—"

"It's useless," he said. "Don't presume to know my own land better than I do."

She bit her lip, hands clenching in her hair. She had to shut her eyes, shut out the sight of his cold, unyielding expression as the invisible wall reached its full height between them. "No…"

He was still an enemy. The knowledge crushed her slowly as a stone hand gripping her heart.

For all the times he'd saved her from danger and brought her back from the edge of death, even extending his protection to the borders of her kingdom, he was still an enemy. She had been blind not to see it, and even now it killed her to face it fully, to know this man she had fallen helplessly in love with and sacrificed everything but her life for had essentially remained the same throughout this entire tragedy. He still thought nothing of wholesale slaughter for the sake of his own goals. For gaining her trust so that he could save his own life. He thought nothing of revealing the full extent of his cruelty to her merely to drive home his point, the assertion that her sacrifice had changed nothing except the time of his death.

The stone suddenly tightened around her heart when the stark lens of reality tilted inward and she saw the full extent of her own wrongs.

She had betrayed her fiancé, her father, and her kingdom for this man. She had shattered the sacred covenant she had made with Aladdin, a man she no longer even remembered, a man she'd left behind so that she could save an enemy. She hadn't even given her fiancé a second thought as she had willingly given herself to that enemy, pleading for him to take her.

And now…

And now, what could she possibly do when everything had already crashed down around her shoulders? Fifteen hundred souls would soon be sent to their deaths because of her, as sacrifices for her own blind trust in a man who thought of everyone and everything as a means to an end, who had used her to prolong his life and then taken everything from her in a night of forbidden passion, who had just asserted that he would still blacken the Seven Deserts with the shadow of his power. For him, she had left her kingdom and loved ones in the dark, not even realizing her abandonment and betrayal until it was too late.

"This can't be happening...this can't…"

She sobbed into her hands and curled into herself, still refusing to look at him. She couldn't stand to see the coldness, the impassive silence in his face, the unforgiving reality that had caught up with her at last.

"How could you do this to me?" she whispered brokenly.

But the question was no longer solely his to answer. It was hers as well, and there was nothing she could say in response, nothing she could offer in defense. She had two weeks until the full measure of her foolishness would be paid in blood. And it was already too late to take back her betrayal of Aladdin and her kingdom.

She had to leave this place. She couldn't stay in this cursed land any longer and fall even deeper into madness. She couldn't stay with him.

She flinched away from the hand that reached for her, shutting out the calm, cold voice that did not belong to the man who had rightly won her heart, a voice that had spoken in cruelty and condescension more than love and truth.

"Jasmine. Listen to me—"

"Don't touch me," she said.

"You need to stop before your mind snaps," he said levelly, and though they were close enough to touch, he now felt far removed from her. She welcomed that distance, that barrier of safety that established them as enemies before allies, where there was no thought of love.

"I can't stop," she answered, her voice surprisingly calm. "It's madness, what you've done to me. I can't stop, and there's no turning back. There's no taking back what you took from me.

"But I have to go back to my kingdom."

He kept silent, perhaps knowing that she would inevitably reject any words of veiled comfort or cool logic.

"Let me go, Mozenrath," she said, forcing away all thoughts of how impossible it was to actually step back into the world she had forsaken.

"I've already told you that you are free to leave."

She detected no trace of regret or hesitation in his voice or expression. The walls were indeed thick, just as they had always been before circumstance and her persistence had torn them down.

"But," he continued, "You will not be safe in Agrabah or any place away from these sands now that the shield is gone. Mirage will not forget her defeat, nor will she forget her delight in tormenting you."

It felt as if an invisible force was suddenly siphoning the air from her lungs. The unadorned reminder of what the goddess had done to her, of how she had rendered her mind into a complete wreck of horrifying images and sounds and living fears was enough to send her halfway back into the pervasive hopelessness of that labyrinth. She could not escape the truth; Mirage would indeed hunt her down with the unrelenting desire to finish what she had started in Morbia.

Her breath hitched as she realized that there was more than just her own life at stake. Mirage knew of her liaison with Mozenrath and her betrayal of Aladdin. She knew she had been hiding away for half a month. Jasmine did not want to think about how she could use that sickening knowledge against her fiancé. It would break his heart to pieces. And her father…her father would lose faith in her. He had loved her unconditionally since she had first drawn breath, but could he forgive a daughter who had betrayed her fiancé and her kingdom, after all he had done to accommodate her desire for freedom and rebellion against age-old law?

He must have heard the trickle of hysteria in the broken sobs that wracked her body. He reached forward and took hold of her arm, and she did not stop him this time.

In the next second she felt the cool breeze of the open desert on her skin. He had transported them out of the Citadel onto the vast dark sands of his barren kingdom. A steady hand held her upright, drawing her up to stand on her own feet. He released her once she regained her balance, and she stared up at him through her tears, questioning his purpose.

He turned and began climbing the slope of the nearest dune, toward the dim light in the dark gray sky. She followed him slowly, pulled forward by the absence of choice. There was something he wanted to tell her, but he would not do it in words.

A relentless tremor of memory ran through her as she stood beside him at the top of the dune, watching the shrouded sun sink toward the horizon. It was as a corpse wrapped for burial, lowering slowly into the ground, silent and void of life. And she saw the land before them, her eyes tracing the wandering line between rusted gold and midnight coal. The end of his domain.

_Did you bring me here to mock me, Mozenrath?_

She knew that one more pillar of her sanity had crumbled when he turned toward her sharply, his eyes intently searching her face. She had spoken the words aloud.

He should have known the Mirror had shown her that memory, that she was already intimately familiar with this place, the dividing line that represented all that lay between them. The question of why that day had been so pivotal in his life was now clear to her. It had remained in his mind as a firebrand across his skin, and it still burned strongly enough that he had chosen to take another princess, broken and begging for freedom, to this same place, to watch the same sun set over the timeless boundary between his power and her greatest desire.

"This is the line between you and me, isn't it," she said softly, her words captured quickly by the wind. Her hair swept over her face and shoulders as she turned to face him. "But my greatest desire isn't to be free of you."

She forced herself to meet his eyes, waiting for any sort of reaction as she told him what it was she wanted. It was clear to her now, so painfully and impossibly clear.

"I love you, against all reason and sanity and conscience. And I don't want to stop. But I have to. I have to, and…my greatest wish is to not have to make that choice."

The wind curved the paths of tears down her face, droplets falling into her hair and on his hands which she now clasped under her chin.

"There is nothing worse than knowing love is wrong," she said, her voice drawn down to a whisper. "I think that's what hell is."

Her throat clenched in a sob, and she leaned into him as the strength left her with her words, carried away by the winds of dusk. He cupped her face gently as if holding the edges of her sanity together with his hands, and kissed her.

They stood against the dying sun, their entwined forms a small imprint against the vast darkening sky, wrapped in the inalterable truth that had haunted her on her journey through his life and into his heart. Power came at a cost. She had seen him pay that cost a hundred times over, and in turn it had exacted its toll on her, draining her of strength and innocence and health, and leaving her with love that was suspended over a pit of its own end.

And she learned that love came at a cost as well, a cost that could surpass the dangerous price of power because love itself held the ultimate threshold of power. This was the knife that speared through her heart and spilled her life's blood with its reversed blade, an inversion of what was right, what she had imagined love was in all its limitless grace and truth. Her own hand covered his on the handle, driving it willingly through her in sacrifice and helpless longing for what could not be.

She sensed the absence of walls between them as they finally parted, and saw the price he was paying in his eyes, the conflict that he could not resolve with all the power he held in his right hand and in the strength of his will. She saw the desire to set her free from the pain and madness that had overtaken her at last, echoing with the memory of another princess he had sought to save. And she saw a shadow of regret, almost imperceptible if she had not come to know him so well, regret that he had regained his life only to continue with the same curse of power and a binding covenant to a force beyond his control.

"I'll find a way for you to go. It may take time, but I'll find it," he said simply.

She tilted her face up and brushed his lips in a light caress.

"Thank you."

She did not move toward the light sands of the desert beyond his land, knowing she could not leave yet. She trusted that he would keep his word this time, despite all the untruths that lay between them.

They watched the slow sinking of the sun, waiting for the onset of night. She held onto him when he brought her back to the Citadel, and did not let go as the heat between them burned away the last invisible wall once more, allowing the mindless ache of pleasure to dull the pain of truth even if only for a short time.

She lay in his arms in the wordless silence of exhaustion and the knowledge of the end soon approaching. And she thought of a truth he had once told another princess, that power was freedom. It was a lie.


	28. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

She did not dream of a desert this time, but of a land covered in deep mist. The ground was invisible under thick layers of fog. Even her own hands seemed to fade into the air at her sides.

She was filled with an inexplicable calm, soothed by the slow roll of the mists around her. The muffled silence of her surroundings seemed to form a barrier against the grief and worry that had sundered her mind once again. A familiar voice began to speak, and she turned toward it, already knowing who it was.

"At the gates of judgment, you meet a good man who did bad things, and a bad man who did good things. Who deserves to enter into paradise?"

The old man's gray cloak seemed to blend into the fog, the edges of his sleeves invisible to her. As always, she was unable to see his eyes behind the cloth around his face. She did not move nearer to him, merely considering his riddle in stillness.

"There isn't a right answer, is there?" she said. If there were an answer, it would certainly not be what she expected. The sage had a way of leading mortals in insubstantial circles before giving them even a hint of solid truth.

"Think," was his simple reply.

She stayed silent for a moment longer. The stillness and peace of this dream world had cleared away the dust and grime of what her life had become, allowing her to think lucidly at last, unclouded by fear and doubt.

"What makes the good man good if he does bad things?" she asked. "And the bad man...there's the same question. Why is either of them considered good or bad if they do the opposite of what they..."

She trailed off, thinking harder.

"How is being good different from doing good?"

The old sage withdrew his wizened hands from his long sleeves with measured slowness. A small smile touched his pallid lips.

"Whom would you love?"

She stared, lost once more in a puzzle too complex and daunting for her overtaxed mind. But there was no malice or arrogance in Fashir's countenance. He was here to help her, though his methods were frustratingly convoluted as always.

"I would want to love the good man," she said slowly, "even if he did bad things. It would be easier knowing he was still a good person in the end."

She knew he could hear the unspoken thoughts in her voice. She continued.

"But the other…if he were…if he were good to me…" She closed her eyes briefly, beginning to understand an inkling of the old man's meaning. "I could love him too. Because I'd know that he was at least capable of doing good, and perhaps in time he could actually be good."

Fashir's smile grew in seeming approval, though his mind was still an enigma.

"Which one is he?" she asked plainly. She did not have to say his name.

The old man's reply made her pause.

"They are the same man."

Her mind absorbed the epiphany, now traveling toward a whole new horizon of possibilities, too bewildering to navigate all at once.

"But…isn't that all of us?" There was a strange feeling deep within her chest, now spreading to her limbs, capturing every part of her with the weight of this revelation.

"Is it?" the sage asked evenly. "Then who may pass through the gates of judgment?"

She breathed deeply, trying to calm the erratic rhythm of her heart, her senses still seized by the subdued excitement born from her own thoughts.

"I don't know," she admitted freely. "I don't think anyone can say. But…I think there's hope for everyone."

She turned to the side, sensing a change in the air. A window covered in a light haze had appeared beside her, and through it she saw his sleeping form, now alone in his bed. She watched his face, relaxed in slumber, finally at peace. Only in sleep did the walls of his guarded countenance disappear completely, allowing her a glimpse of the man he was in his most natural state. Unguarded, but not vulnerable; she could still see the silent strength and relentless will to live that had been apparent to her from the beginning. Somewhere along the line, his strength and ambition had no longer become a threat and cause for enmity, but rather a force that drew them together in union.

But that union was not to last. She turned from the window and looked at the old man again, her own strength suddenly failing her. She felt as a mere doll now, filled with thoughts and dreams that she did not have the power to infuse with reality. She had fought a long hard struggle to assert her autonomy and power over her life and the fate of a dark man, but it seemed she had reached the end of her striving at last. There was nothing more she could do for herself or for him that would not bring them both further down a path of no return and little hope.

"What can I do," she said softly, "for a man who doesn't want to be saved?"

Perhaps this was the question she should have asked from the very beginning. Not what she could have done to save her kingdom from a false ultimatum. Not what she could have done to defeat or outsmart him. But what she could have done to save him, so that after all they had been through, it would not have come to this point.

"What did he do for you?" the sage pressed gently.

She looked at him strangely, wondering what kind of timeframe surrounded such a question. Mozenrath had saved her life several times, shown her small kindnesses, challenged her to reach far beyond her limits…but in the end he had taken much more than he had given. The thought still tore at her heart.

"He never gave without taking," she said. "I don't know what you mean…"

"What was the last thing he did for you?"

She paused at the question, knowing the old sage was speaking more plainly now for her benefit because she still did not understand most of what he intended for her to learn. She closed her eyes as the answer came to her, a simple truth she had overlooked.

"He let me go."

She opened her eyes to see his nod of acknowledgment and patience. He was waiting for her decision. Her answer to her own question. It settled quietly within her consciousness as she turned toward the window and reached for his sleeping form.

She had to leave. Though her heart would tear and bleed, she knew that with time it might mend again, as it had before. She could not stay here and risk bleeding herself dry for a man who no longer demanded her sacrifice, a man she longed to save more than anything. But she could not save either of them by staying here.

The seer had opened a way into Morbia so that she could be saved from torment; she trusted he could open a way out of the Land of the Black Sand as well, keeping her safe from the goddess that would seek to ensnare her again in endless suffering. This was the reason for his rare visit, to offer an intervention that mortal hands could not provide, not even those graced with vast power.

Her hand seemed to pass over his slumbering form intangibly, brushing the skin of his face but not giving away her presence or disturbing his rest. The image seemed to meld together with the mist of this realm, and she was kneeling beside him on the bed, stroking his face absently. He did not stir.

"As you said, Princess, there is hope for the good and the bad man, because they are one and the same. But hope only serves to lead one onto the path of redemption. The choice to continue walking is for every man to make for himself."

She breathed in slowly but there was only mist; she could not sense him here, as if they were still separated by a layer of dreams. She tasted mist as she leaned down and brushed his lips with her own, one last time, and embraced him gently, wishing he could hear her words of parting.

"When we meet again, we'll be on the same path."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder for a brief moment, allowing herself to forget the wrongs and the sorrows that still lay between them, creating a memory that was untouched by tragedy or ulterior motives. The future was a haze; their paths were yet unmarked. All she could see was fog and his solitude when he awoke to a shrouded dawn. But she had to believe in him still, that his liberation from the curse of the hourglass would lead him eventually to liberation from the curse of the gauntlet. She could not see him again before that happened.

When she rose, the seer had already extended a hand toward her, waiting for her to accept it. Her heart faltered at her gut conviction that she would not be returning home, that it was impossible to return there as long as Mirage still hunted her. She stared levelly at the sage's unseen eyes, questioning their destination.

"There are other souls to save," he said.

Her heartbeat began to quicken again as the comforting haze separating from her reality thinned. She could sense the flow of time returning, the renewed necessity of purpose and action. She remembered the cost of her kingdom's protection, a binding promise to a dark spirit and her will to break it, though she did not have the power or knowledge to do so. The facts still stood. The time for a blood payment was drawing near, and she alone knew.

The seer still waited with an outstretched hand, presenting both a challenge and an offer. She would have to find a way to pay or annul the cost on her own, to prevent a slaughter reminiscent of an even darker man who had once ruled these lands.

She took his hand then and let him draw her gently away from the vanishing window, deciding not to doubt his vision. An odd peace settled over her despite the new urgency in the air, foreign and strange to this realm of dreams. She trusted he would take her where she needed to be, where it was best to be both for her own safety and the salvation of those yet unsuspecting of the curse at their doors.

The mist curled thickly around her as she followed the seer and let go of her last invisible bonds to the man she had come to love. In her footsteps she heard an echo of a soft song born from harpstrings, one that had first been strung for her salvation, now her mantra of hope for his.


	29. Epilogue

Epilogue

She sat on a stone ledge that had been the dais of a grand temple, overlooking the silent ruins of a once majestic city. The vast web of streets all leading to this hill were desolate as dried tributaries, cut off from their source long ago. The gentle hues of the setting sun cast a veil of lingering dignity over the ancient kingdom, and she remembered again the breathtaking splendor of this place as she had seen it in a brief, borrowed memory. The weight in her heart only grew heavier with the irrefutable knowledge that this was all that was left. The pure light of this city had long since gone out, and she was too late.

The sun was setting on the fifteenth day, the end of another race against death, the second impossible challenge she had desperately taken upon her shoulders. She had lost this time, and others would have to pay the price.

She curled up in the shadow of a towering column that had once held up a sacred temple of healing. The faded symbol of a sun was carved into the stone above her head, a forlorn reminder of the power that had once flowed in abundance to save those in the grasp of death. Somehow her eyes were as dry as the outlying desert when she lay down and locked herself within the husk of sleep.

...

_Not all was destroyed on the Day of Shadows. Seek the light that escaped the darkness…_

_She stood alone before the crumbled walls of Helinth, the entrance to a city she had only seen in small, wondrous glimpses. The foundations lay in piles of rubble as far as she could see; the battle over the divine power at the inner sanctuary of the temple had left nothing intact, tearing stone from mortar and sealing the city as a mass grave. _

_The kingdom was larger than Agrabah, and for a moment she faltered at the daunting task before her. She had two weeks to wander debris-strewn streets with no guide and no clues other than the latest vague riddle the seer had left her with. She did not even know if anyone still lived here or cared to pass by._

_But she had to try nonetheless. Fashir had enough faith in her to entrust her with this task and grant her his protection. Mirage would not be able to detect her presence while she worked to mend the wrong she had unwittingly caused. Fifteen hundred lives hung in the balance, and she could not fail._

_She picked her way through abandoned streets with urgency and purpose. The temple stood on a hill in the distance, the centerpiece of the once famed kingdom. Whatever Fashir had told her to look for would most likely be there. Perhaps there was still some remnant of power that Destane had not taken, hidden somehow by the sultana. Or perhaps there were people there who held answers, who could help in stopping the black sand from devouring more innocent souls. She moved faster at the thought that maybe this was how Mozenrath could be changed, if he returned to the ruins of his city and saw that not all had been lost, that the light still lived and there was still time to take the path his mother had prophesied at his birth._

_At the end of the first day she managed to reach the foot of the hill, and had to rest. She drew her cloak around herself as night fell, and wondered if she were truly the only living being in the entire city._

_..._

_The suspicious sound of rustling cloth woke her in the middle of the night. Keeping still, she opened her eyes a crack and saw the vague outline of someone crouched over her discarded cloak. She must have cast it aside in her sleep. _

_The stranger was small and thin, by all appearances a child. He was rummaging through the pockets of her cloak, and soon found there was nothing there. Shoulders slumped in disappointment, he stepped back and began to slink away._

_She sat up then and grabbed one scrawny wrist, holding firm when he immediately began to struggle._

"_Stop," she ordered, and winced when nails scratched at her forearm in desperation. The stranger did not respond, staying silent as he fought to break free. She swept one foot against his ankle and tripped him easily. In a second she stood over him and held both of his hands together._

"_I'm not going to hurt you," she said. "I just want you to tell me what you know about this place."_

_He ceased struggling and stared up at her blankly. Something in her heart twisted as she saw how young he was, scraggly hair framing a gaunt face, ribs clearly visible under a thin ragged shirt._

"_I'll give you some food if you just sit here with me for a while," she said, and drew out some of the provisions the seer had given her. She had kept them separate from her cloak, and apparently the boy hadn't seen them. "Do you have family here?"_

_He shook his head and squirmed, trying to loosen her hold. She released him and he scrambled back hastily, bare feet scraping against rubble. Not breaking eye contact, she offered him a piece of bread. Wide eyes darted from her face to her hand and in another second he snatched it, shot to his feet and vanished into the darkness._

_She sat still for a long moment before drawing her cloak around herself again. Lying down, she stared at the ground where the starving boy had just been._

_..._

_She searched the massive ruins of the temple for two days, moving as fast as she dared when some of the structures looked like they might collapse if she so much as touched them. She climbed carefully into the hidden recesses of the ancient building, using the little sunlight that filtered down through the cracks to explore. The walls were covered in old carvings and embellishments scoured to obscurity by the elements. She direly wished she had some sense of magic to be able to tell if she was anywhere close to her elusive goal, and more than once she called on the seer for guidance. Each time she felt foolish standing in the utter silence following her pleas. He would not answer her. She moved on nonetheless, determined that the task he had given her was indeed possible to accomplish. She just had to look harder, think harder, keep her focus and remember what was at stake._

_At the end of the second day, she sat on the main stairs leading up to the temple entrance, unable to walk any further without risk of falling from weariness. She massaged her sore legs methodically, looking over the empty city. There had to be something here, but Fashir was never obvious in his directions. Perhaps the secret did not lie in the temple after all._

_The palace was an hour's walk away. From her vantage point on the hill, the wide towers appeared somewhat intact, though the gates lay in a smashed heap. She thought of the boy she had seen two nights before and wondered if she would find more people there._

_Her tired legs protested when she tried to stand. She sat back down heavily and brushed her hair back from her face. She would make the trek in the morning. There was still time. She needed to rest. _

_She lay awake for a long while, wondering how often Mozenrath returned here, if he ever did at all._

_..._

_There were people living in the ruins of the palace._

_The chambers and halls that had not collapsed had become makeshift homes for silent, sullen-eyed youths who watched her warily when she approached. She tried to smile, a foreign act after days of solitude. Their eyes automatically went to the pouch she carried, and she tightened her grip on it. Her food supply was running low, though she had rationed it carefully. But she fought against the instinct of self-preservation, knowing what she had to do. _

_She sat down near them, and over the course of a meager meal she gradually discovered where they were from, why they had ventured to this desolate place, and who else was here._

_They had brought their parents and aging relatives and friends, loved ones who were in dire need of help that the physicians they had sought out could not provide. Some had merely been unable to afford any care, and in their desperation they had journeyed here, knowing the reputation the city had once had for its divine healing magic. Though all of them were well-acquainted with the dark rumors that the kingdom was haunted with the ghosts of the slain and even with the ravenous spirit of the black sand itself, they had come here anyway in the hope that some remnant of Helios' magic still existed. For there were other rumors as well, rumors that Destane had not managed to take all of the god's power, that some of it still remained after the royal family or the high priest had hidden it somewhere safe._

_Her heartbeat quickened when she heard this, realizing they were after the same thing. But it was obvious from their defeated countenance that they had not found it, and likely doubted that it was real._

_She asked them why they stayed, and they were quiet, looking away with a mix of veiled anger and grief. The unspoken answer sank in. They had nowhere else to go._

_One replied in soft cynicism. It was better than nothing, he said, because there were visitors who passed by sometimes and used magic to make death less painful, though they could not actually break its hold on their loved ones. _

_She asked who these visitors were. The youths looked at each other and shrugged._

_They never gave their names, the same boy answered._

_..._

_After she had gained their trust, one of them allowed her to see his dying sister. She followed him into a small chamber that had probably been part of the servants' quarters. Her heart crumbled at the sight of the tiny girl, skin shriveled and pale, eyes unseeing. She held her hand, as fragile as a young bird's, and sat there in numb silence. An unvoiced whisper for the seer's presence passed repeatedly through her lungs, yet he still did not reveal himself. She shut her eyes and clamped down on the despair that threatened to take hold of her. She was beginning to feel as abandoned as the people here, helpless at the creeping hands of death._

_She managed a smile before she left the girl's side, trying to impart hope that she did not have. The girl stared at her blankly in response._

"_When will the healers come again?" she asked the boy once they were outside the room._

_He didn't know._

_..._

_It was already the second week of her search when she ran across the starving child who had tried to steal from her the first night. Her listless journey through each street and house had led her to his home, a mansion that had presumably belonged to a noble family before it had been emptied of life. An old man squinted at her from behind the door after the boy had darted inside out of fear. She held out her last bit of food as a peace offering before he opened the door wide enough for her to enter._

_..._

"_We are waiting for the healers. One of them, a woman, cared for my grandson when he wandered too far into the temple ruins and took a nasty fall. He still has a scar, here. Show her, Iliom._

"_This time I will ask them to help me. I am old and weak, and now I am sick. There is no medicine or magic where we come from. I do not know where the healers go when they leave. They do not tell anyone, and no one can find them. So I wait here, trusting they will return soon._

"_Then I will take Iliom out of this dead city. He is strong and growing, but has nothing to eat._

"_Thank you for sharing your food with us. The healers would look with favor on you."_

_..._

_Her heart was leaden when she returned to the palace. There was little time left and she had not found anything. The mysterious healers had not yet come to the city, and she could do nothing but wait._

_She had nothing to give her silent companions this time, and they sat together in weariness and hunger. At some point she began to talk, to tell them the reason she had come here. They looked at her with mild skepticism as she spoke of the black sand and sacrifice. Some of them rose to their feet in alarm, but she reassured them that the city was not likely in danger, as few knew there was anyone still living here._

_The time of payment drew nearer as a blade suspended over the neck of the condemned. She could almost feel the slice of metal through skin and bone, and spent her nights outside, beseeching the empty air for the answers she so desperately needed. She slumped down in defeat in the end, still alone and without the counsel of the old seer who had sent her here. Helplessness crippled her anger, and she could only sit with arms curled tightly around her knees, waiting for the inevitable, a miraculous deliverance or the whistling fall of the blade._

_..._

The sun rose in passive brilliance, and she stared at the glint of gold and orange over the great fallen monuments across the city.

She closed her eyes and tried to block out the imagined screams and stains of red. With practice, she reduced her vision to a single shade of black.

She stood and began the long trek down from the ruined temple, not thinking of where she could go now, hardly seeing at all.

It was almost expected when she stumbled on weakened legs and blurring vision, the slope seeming to tilt as she pitched forward. There was a sharp pain in her skull where it met stone, and the black returned.

...

"…any later and…"

"…matters is, we found…"

"…not lost…never thought…alive…"

"…have to wait. First we have to—"

"She's coming to. Give me water."

She tried to open her eyes and the throbbing pain in her head intensified. A warm hand touched the side of her forehead and the pain dulled somewhat.

"Easy," a woman's voice said gently above her. "It's alright."

"Healer?" she managed to whisper.

There was a pause. "Yes. And you are—"

"Give her some time, Elana," a male voice said.

Jasmine opened her eyes and looked up into the hopeful face of a woman several years older than her, short black hair barely touching her shoulders. Her dark eyes were full of concern as she passed her hand over Jasmine's forehead again.

"You need water," she said simply, and tilted a flask to her lips. "Drink."

Her surroundings filtered in slowly as she obeyed. It seemed she was inside another room in the palace, one that was in better shape than any she had seen thus far. The ceiling was fully intact and there was a thin mattress beneath her. She made an effort to sit up, wanting to see who else was in the room.

The man who had spoken stepped forward and supported her with a hand on her back. She looked at him in brief confusion, trying to place the light-colored hair and scholarly face.

"Mother, will she be okay?" a child's voice said.

She turned and saw a boy who could not be older than ten standing behind the woman.

"Yes, Lukas, she'll be fine," the woman replied, not taking her eyes off Jasmine. A tentative smile touched her worried features. "It is truly a miracle."

"A miracle indeed," the man echoed, looking curiously into Jasmine's eyes. "I don't expect you know who we are?"

Jasmine shook her head, trying to sort out what was happening beyond the obvious fact these people were the healers she had heard about. Hope surged in her heart as she realized there might still be time for them to help, to fight against the black sand somehow.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, her voice hoarse from dehydration. "I need your help."

The smile on the woman's face grew warm, some elusive joy held in reserve. "We will do whatever we can to help you. But first, I must know your name."

She hesitated for a second. "Jasmine."

The woman nodded. "My name is Elana. He is Elin, and this is my son, Lukas."

Again the man's face struck her as vaguely familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him. Her eyes returned to the woman and she realized that Elana was somehow familiar as well.

"Thank you for healing me," Jasmine said. "Have we…met before?"

"We have not," Elana said. "But it must have been fated that we would, a blessing beyond what I have ever imagined. There is much we may learn from each other."

Jasmine stared at her in confusion as Elana took her hands with reverence. Her dark eyes shone.

"My brother, Morathai. Is he well?"

She could not breathe for a moment.

_Not all was destroyed on the Day of Shadows. Seek the light that escaped the darkness…_

The true meaning of the seer's parting message struck her as a current of lightning. The survivors of Helinth…the familiarity in Elana's long-lashed eyes, the delicate frame of her face…

"Mor…Morathai," she repeated shakily. She was trembling, unable to control the pounding of her own heart. "How did you know…?"

Elana's voice drew lower in a joyful whisper.

"You are carrying his child. The heir to the throne of Helinth."

The world faded to nothingness for a brief eternity as she absorbed those words. Her heart seemed to fail her in sudden weakness, crippled by disbelief, wonder, and utter terror. They had…she had…

"Don't be afraid," Elana said soothingly, seeing the fear so starkly written on her face. "You have brought joyous news to me and all those who survived the destruction of our city. My brother lives. The prophecy is true."

"Prophecy?" she asked faintly.

."He was not lost to death and darkness," Elana said, voice gaining strength with each word. "Our mother's dream was not a lie. He lives, and the power of Helios lives on in him."


	30. Afterword

Afterword

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this story. Since I finished the first version almost two years ago, Antiphony remains the only epic I've actually completed, and for all its flaws, it's still very special to me.

I'd be very happy to hear from you, whatever you may have gotten out of this story, along with any suggestions or criticisms. The process of revision and removal of all the dross of the first version has only reminded me of how much more I need to improve as a writer.

Many of you know I had also previously posted part of the sequel, titled The Height of Faith, and then took it down. I'm still working on it, but it may take a while for me to be confident enough to post the beginning of the new version.

In the meantime, I've written an interlude between Antiphony and The Height of Faith, titled Shards. It fills in the blanks on what happened in Agrabah during the span of Antiphony's storyline. It'll be posted soon. Just put me on your author alerts to be notified when it is. In the meantime, if you're new to this story, you can check out the rest of the fics I've written in connection with it (Circum, Past the Gates of Perdition, etc.).

A very special thanks to demonegg for beta-ing all my writing with the utmost patience and thoroughness. Many plot ideas and character dialogue and other elements stemmed from her directly. A large part of the sequel is due to her ingenuity and imagination. The very fact that I even continued with the idea of an M/J pairing is because of her (though she may regret that now).

Thanks also to Katie Ann, Geniusgirl, Mengde, and Shini02 for looking over various drafts of chapters and helping with ideas.

Finally, thanks to everyone who has given me feedback, encouragement, and even fanart. Your reviews mean a lot, and without them it would be difficult to continue. My goal as a writer is still to challenge people to rethink what they know and connect stories to their own lives, and I really value the things readers have shared with me on those fronts.

See you at the sequel!

Cantare

April 9, 2010


End file.
